Journey to Home
by Mandelene
Summary: Alfred is one of thirty thousand children without a home until he lands himself on an orphan train. Now he's in the hands of an irate Englishman and a town full of misfits just like him. 1920s AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note** : This is just something I thought I'd try out. Let me know what you think. I'm hoping to continue it.

* * *

Papa used to say that a man is judged by the number of pennies in his pocket.

Alfred tends to agree. He's lined up against a slab of drywall with fifteen other orphaned children, looking out at the buzzing crowd of farmers scrutinizing them for the picking, and thinks that maybe if he had some pennies, he could run away and start his own farm. He could grow enough corn and potatoes to never be hungry again. He's never maintained crops before, but it can't be much worse than factory work, and it's better to be outside in the sun than in a muggy brick-building with all of the windows clamped shut.

The farmers advance on them, prowling back and forth as the strongest boys are taken first. Alfred is one of the stragglers left behind with the youngsters, and though a few men show an initial interest in him, they snort and scowl when they see how frail he is—no better than a walking skeleton. If he lifts a single sack of spuds, he's likely to break an arm.

"Flimsy boy, won't be much use for anything," one of them says, curling his lip in disgust. "Might not even survive till the end of the month."

Mr. Vargas, the adult looking after them until they're placed into homes, pats the farmer on the back and says, "He's a healthy boy, a little underfed, but healthy."

That's not entirely true. Alfred knows he's more than a "little" underfed, and he's infamous with the others for his lung spasms. Even on the train ride here, he fell into one of his fits, gasping and panting as Mr. Vargas assured him he was fine. Mr. Vargas thinks he's nothing but a liar who's trying to be sent to a hospital where the food is better and claims he's seen enough fibbing boys in his life to know when there is a real cause for concern.

After an hour of standing around, he is still one of the five boys remaining. The others are barely older than toddlers, meaning they are too little to be fit for any serious fieldwork. And Alfred, well, he's always been the runt of the group.

"How old is he?"

"Just turned ten."

"Really? He doesn't look a day older than seven."

There's someone new standing before him. The man crouches to get a closer look at him, humming in thought. He's wearing awfully nice clothes for a farmer—his shoes have been shined recently, and he's got a corduroy jacket free of any stains or tears. A pair of green eyes blink owlishly at him, and Alfred is reminded of the trees in Central Park—how he would sometimes sleep underneath their shade during the warmer months.

"Can you read, lad?"

He doesn't sound like a farmer either. He's English, and Alfred knows this because some of the boys on the train were English, parentless and alone in a foreign land where life was supposed to be better.

"N-No, sir," Alfred tells him, frightened by how croaky his voice sounds. It's been a while since he's been offered any water.

"What's your name?"

"Alfred."

He's certainly intimidating. He looks like a serious and stern individual, nothing like what Alfred imagined his new parent to be, but he isn't about to start complaining. Anything is better than being defenseless on the street, and if things turn out to be really bad, he'll sneak off in the middle of the night and never return.

Mr. Vargas is absolutely delighted—the happiest Alfred has ever seen him. He's eager to get rid of the boy, mostly because he's been more trouble than he's worth over the past few weeks.

After a brief discussion and the signing of a contract, Alfred is handed over to the imposing man. The hunger in his belly has become worse, and though he is normally able to ignore it, today he can feel every ache and pain in his body. It is so intense that he struggles to keep up with the man, lightheaded and smacking his lips with thirst. Thankfully, the walk isn't long because as soon as they're out of the plaza, the man stops in front of a car and swings the door open, waiting for Alfred to get inside.

And talk about pennies… This man must be loaded with them if he can afford a _car_! The thought makes Alfred's head spin even more.

"Are you a farmer?" Alfred asks him, pulling the tiny knapsack hanging off his shoulder closer to his chest. He doesn't have many belongings, but he keeps a pair of woolen socks and an extra shirt in the knapsack along with the stuffed, gray rabbit he's had as a toy since he was a baby. He also has a picture of him with his brother hidden in one of the inner pockets.

The man scrunches his brows at the question and then laughs. It's not an unpleasant laugh by any means but it still manages to scare Alfred. "No, far from it."

"What are you then?"

"A lawyer."

"Oh."

Alfred isn't exactly sure of what a lawyer does, but he doesn't want to ask because he'll probably end up embarrassing himself even more. Worse, maybe the man will think he's stupid and send him back to Mr. Vargas.

But if he's not a farmer, then what does he need a kid for?

"Come along, now. I'm in a bit of a rush," the man urges, resting a hand on Alfred's back to give him a small push. "Have you ever been in a car before?"

"No, sir."

"Well, there's a first time for everything. Oh, and you needn't call me 'sir'. Arthur will do just fine."

Alfred nods and gets into the passenger side of the car, clutching his knapsack tightly. He's heard of people dying from being in cars before. The wheels can roll right off and everything can explode.

"Where are we going?"

"To my home," Arthur says, starting the car and leading them down a winding road cutting through the plains of Illinois.

Things are much different here than in New York. It's more barren, which is disappointing because Alfred thought this land would be plentiful. The children on the train spoke of endless rows of grain and huge apple orchards, but so far, Alfred has only seen untouched grass and the occasional humble house by the roadside. It's not as terrible as the smell of raw sewage and the sight of panhandlers on every street corner, but at least in New York, there was a sense of togetherness associated with their abject poverty. The wealthy took up the luxurious parts of the city, and the rest of the paupers like him fought for their fill each day.

"We're nearly there," Arthur announces after what feels like half an hour. "It's the next town over."

And true to his word, the farther they drive, the less rural their surroundings become. Clusters of houses begin to pop up on the hillsides, and Alfred takes everything in with great interest, wondering what life will be like here. It already looks a little brighter and happier than life in the city.

Arthur stops the car in front of a cream colored two-story house. It has a simple elegance about it, and the flowers in the garden are vibrant and well-trimmed. A white fence surrounds the property, and Arthur ushers him up the cobblestone walkway leading to the porch.

"Shoes off at the door," he instructs, outstretching an arm to block Alfred from entering the house. "Track any dirt inside and you'll be the one cleaning it up."

His shoes are so worn that Alfred doubts they even constitute as shoes anymore, but he doesn't argue. He carefully toes them off and leaves them on the porch.

But before he can step inside, a blur of fluff comes barreling out of the foyer and slams into his legs, knocking him down. His head hits one of the wooden chairs set up on the porch, and he lets out a startled yelp, thrusting his hands out to keep whatever monster is coming after him at bay.

"Oi, you mongrel! How many times have I told you that's not the way to greet someone?" Arthur shouts from somewhere above him. He hears the door close, followed by a scratching sound and a pitiful whine.

After a moment, a pair of firm hands help him up and dust off his threadbare overcoat.

"Awfully sorry about that," Arthur huffs. "Baron gets a bit enthusiastic when guests arrive. Are you all right?"

Alfred rubs the bump on his head and nods, too frightened to speak. Arthur opens the door again, except this time, he grabs Baron by the collar and directs him away from Alfred.

"He'll calm down in a minute. Come in before you catch your death out there."

With reluctance, Alfred finally crosses the threshold, eyes widening at the giant dog who is still anxiously wagging his tail back and forth and trying to get a good whiff of his trousers. He's a copper colored German shepherd and retriever mix.

"Sit," Arthur commands Baron, quite irritated. "This is Alfred. He's going to be living with us from now on. Be a good, mangy mutt around him. Now you can greet him."

Arthur releases his hold on Baron, and the dog shoves his cold nose against Alfred's hands, sniffing him and padding around him in a full circle before being satisfied. Not a second later, he throws his paws at Alfred's chest to brace himself and gives him a slobbery kiss on the face, causing Alfred to stumble backward.

"Enough, Baron!" Arthur says sharply, calling him to his side. "I know he's in need of a bath, but you're not going to be the one to give it to him."

Alfred wipes away the slimy feeling on his cheek and giggles, pinking. He likes animals, but he's never come into contact with one that could rival him in size. "Can I pet him?"

Arthur purses his lips and gives Baron a withering look. "He's spoiled enough as is, but yes, you may."

Alfred scratches the big brute behind his ears, and Baron collapses onto the floor for a belly rub, panting and impossibly cheerful.

"It's high time for some dinner," Arthur points out, interrupting the cuddle session. "Wash your hands in the lavatory upstairs. It'll be the first room on your left."

He does as he's told and gets the sticky, dirty feeling off of his skin. Then, he follows the sound of Arthur in the kitchen, not caring what is placed before him as long as it is somewhat edible. He's given a bowl of vegetable stew and some bread, and he wastes no time in slurping it up.

Arthur frowns at his poor table manners, but he doesn't comment—it's an issue that can be addressed at a later time, and the child is obviously malnourished.

"I'm sorry it isn't much," Arthur begins to apologize. "I haven't had the time to prepare something more substantial, and it's—"

Alfred tilts his head to one side in between a spoonful of stew. "You cook? I thought ladies were supposed to do the cooking?"

"Err—well, yes, but most of the time it's only Baron and I..."

Alfred lowers his eyes to look at Arthur's hands and notices the wedding band on his ring finger. Papa used to have one too, but he had to pawn it off. He's not sure if it's okay to ask Arthur about it though, so he goes back to eating his stew instead. It's very plain, but it's the best food he's had in weeks.

However, maybe it would be a good time to ask about the work he's going to be doing. Arthur clearly doesn't have any crops, but he does have a garden, so maybe that's what needs tending.

"What work do I havta do?"

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and Arthur tsks at him before gesturing to the napkin on the table and considering Alfred's question.

"Work? What work?"

"That's why you wanted me, right? Cause there's work that's gotta be done?"

Arthur furrows. "That's not why I—Alfred, there isn't any work, aside from some household chores that every young boy should be expected to do."

"So you're not going to make me go to a factory either?"

"No, of course not."

All of the kids he knew had been forced to work. The only children he knew didn't work were the ones who went to school, but most families needed the extra money. Even though some schools were open to the public now, no one had the time to go. Those who were doing well under the economic boom were the privileged ones.

"What's my job then?" he asks, hopelessly confused.

"To grow up strong and healthy," Arthur replies, taking his bowl from him when he's done eating. "I'll run a bath upstairs, and we'll have to find you some clean clothes. I assume you've been wearing that outfit since you left the city?"

Alfred nods. He doesn't see what's wrong with his clothes. They're pretty warm, and better than what some other kids on the train had, but he's quickly learning that Arthur is a stickler for tidiness, and Alfred is everything but cleanly.

He's deposited in the bath a little while later. The water is warm and feels nice against his sore muscles. For the most part, he's allowed to wash himself, but Arthur helps him with his hair because he wants to make sure he gets all of the dirt out and that he hasn't caught any lice during his trip.

Fortunately, Arthur deems him lice-free and scrubs his scalp thoroughly, taking note of the welt on his head from the incident on the porch. His first day home, and he's already more banged up than when he arrived.

When that's taken care of, Arthur puts him into an ill-fitting nightgown, but it will have to do until they can get him something better. Then, it's time for bed, and Alfred doesn't put up a fuss because he's admittedly exhausted, and sleeping under the cozy covers sounds like paradise.

"Look at you," Arthur sighs as the boy climbs into his new bed. "There's not an ounce of meat on you, is there? Did they feed you at all?"

The man isn't quite so intimidating anymore. He's stoic though, and it makes Alfred a little sad to think that maybe Arthur has been lonely too, lonely just like him. When he looks at it that way, he's glad he was chosen for this home—him, Alfred, of all people. The other children are no doubt laboring over backbreaking work, and he gets to snooze without a care in the world. Should he feel guilty?

Arthur awkwardly stands in the middle of the room for a while, unsure of what to do. They don't know each other very well. As a matter of fact, they're practically strangers. And yet, Arthur tries to reach out to him. He doesn't want Alfred to fear him, but he's not known for being an affectionate person either. He settles on, "If you need anything during the night, I'll be across the hall."

"Okay, goodnight."

"Goodnight. I know this isn't the best of circumstances to be put in, and I imagine you're feeling overwhelmed, but we'll figure it out as we go along, yes?"

"Uh-huh."

Arthur takes a deep breath and makes his way out the door. "Okay then."

The man is far from being a papa. Alfred can see how unsure he is of everything he does, and the nervousness laced in his words, and for some reason, that makes him smile. It's kind of funny. He probably hasn't had much experience with children.

But that's okay. Arthur doesn't have to be a papa— maybe they can just be friends and that'll be enough.

* * *

"We have plenty of time before the trial… Yes, yes… We'll practice the questions I'm going to ask, as well as what you should say. Don't stray from your affidavit. We want the jury to view you as someone who is relatable—an everyday man with a streak of horrid luck."

Alfred sits up and rubs his eyes, an enormous yawn escaping him. He slept like a baby. One glance at the floor reveals that Baron camped out in his room for the night, and he's still dozing on his side. The only sign he's alive is by how his paw twitches every now and then.

As he fights the leftover clouds of grogginess in his head, Alfred can hear Arthur finishing up the last bits of a conversation on the phone, and minutes later, the man peeks his head into the room to check if he's awake.

"Good morning, Alfred. Sleep well? I have some business to take care of down at the firm, so would you manage all right on your own for a little while? I shouldn't be long," he explains, casting an exasperated look at Baron in the process. "The old fool tried to sleep in your bed, but I didn't want him getting his grimy paws on the furniture."

Alfred gets up and gives the lazy dog a gentle pat on the head. Although they didn't have the best introduction, he has a feeling he's going to grow fond of Baron. "Good morning. I'll be okay alone."

"Are you sure? There's some porridge on the table for you. I'll try to be back by lunch. Don't leave the house, and don't answer the door either, no matter who it is."

"Okay," Alfred agrees. He's been on his own before, and a few hours doesn't seem like it'll be any trouble.

"Even if it's the President, he'll have to wait until my return," Arthur warns, fetching his briefcase. "Promise me, Alfred."

"I promise. Do you know the President?"

"No, but I want to stress the importance of the matter. I've left the phone number to the firm on the kitchen counter if there's an emergency."

"Okay."

Arthur adjusts his tie, puts on his coat, and does his best attempt at a smile. "All right, I think that's everything. I'll see you in a few hours."

* * *

After breakfast, Alfred finds himself with a serious case of boredom. Arthur's only been gone for twenty minutes, but it feels like an eternity when there's nothing to entertain him. His clothes have been washed, and he puts them on, glad to have their sense of familiarity with him even if they are falling apart.

He plays with Baron for a little while, except he doesn't know where any of the dog's toys are kept, so they settle for some roughhousing.

But Baron is an old dog, and thus, tires quickly. No more than ten minutes go by before he's ready to take another nap.

And so, Alfred is left to his own devices again. It's a beautiful autumn day out, not nearly as chilly as yesterday, and he watches the townsfolk roam down the street from the upstairs window. Not much seems to be going on, and he wonders if it's always this quiet and peaceful in this town.

There's a man across the street with long, blond hair smoking a cigarette, and he somehow knows he's being watched because he looks up at Alfred in surprise, one hand in his pocket.

The man smiles and waves, so Alfred immediately ducks away from the window, heart racing. Arthur hasn't introduced him to anybody else yet, and perhaps that means he doesn't want him talking or getting to know anyone. Then again, isn't it polite to introduce yourself instead of having someone do it for you? He likes meeting new people, and he doesn't see how anything could possibly go wrong in such a serene and bucolic area. In New York, it made sense not to talk to strangers and to constantly be vigilant, but everyone in this town probably knows each other, and they'd like to meet him too.

As though confirming his thoughts, there's a knock on the door.

Alfred bites his lip and tries to decide what to do. Baron is barking, and the man across the street is gone now, which could only mean one thing.

He slowly makes his way to the front door and stares at it for a long moment, unsure. Arthur said he couldn't let anyone in, but he didn't say he couldn't ask the visitor what they wanted.

"Who is it?" he asks, timid.

A bubbly laugh echoes from the porch. "I should be the one asking you that question."

"A-Arthur said you have to wait until he comes back if you wanna come in."

"Oh, I never thought I'd live to see the day. Arthur with a _child_. These are strange times we are living in indeed," the man says to himself, still laughing. "He can barely care for himself."

He doesn't like the sound of this man, but now that his curiosity is piqued, he wants to know more. "Who are you?"

The man stops laughing long enough to reply. "I, _mon chou_ , am Francis, an old friend of Arthur's."

"Friend?"

"I suppose Arthur doesn't really have friends. Allow me to make a correction. I'm a colleague of his. How did you have the misfortune of meeting him?"

Not really wanting to answer the question, Alfred simply remarks, "I live here now."

The man hums and clears his throat. "You wouldn't have happened to arrive on one of the orphan trains?"

"How do you know about that?"

"It happens often in these parts—little boys and girls being relocated from the cities to dreary homes out here. Some are better off on their own, I'm afraid."

Feeling the need to defend himself, Alfred pulls back his shoulders and says proudly, "I don't think I'd be better on my own."

"You're on your own right now, aren't you? Arthur left you in this house all alone, and I'm afraid he's going to be doing that often. He's married to his job."

Is it true? He told himself he'd run away if things got bad again, but things don't seem too bad yet. Should he risk sticking around to find out?

"I can show you around town if you'd like. Baron might enjoy a walk as well."

It's tempting. Very tempting. He looks at the clock again and thinks he might have at least another two hours until lunch. He could be out and back without Arthur ever knowing.

Mind made up, he unlocks the door and lets Francis inside. He smells of cigarettes and roses, and when Baron runs over to see who the intruder is, he growls and shows his impressive set of teeth.

"Stand down, doggy. We're going on a walk. A walk, Baron. Doesn't that sound nice? Your terrible owner doesn't let you out enough. Won't let you go beyond the fence, will he?" Francis coaxes him. He simmers down upon hearing "walk" and allows Francis to attach his leash to his collar. "Let's go."

It really is a gorgeous day, and when Alfred walks down the steps of the porch, he feels the sunlight swimming on his face. Francis guides them down the block, and he even lets Alfred hold Baron's leash for a little while.

"Hold on tight. If he sees a bird, he's likely to chase after it," Francis cautions, chatting about this and that. He tells Alfred about a few of the people in town and suggests a shop where they can get him some new clothes.

"But Arthur said he would take me shopping."

"Hah! He doesn't have any taste. Believe me, Alfred, you will be far better off with what I choose. Consider it a welcome gift."

Francis isn't as creepy as he appeared upon first impression. He's a little extravagant and hard to understand, but Alfred knows he doesn't mean any harm. Even Baron begrudgingly accepts his company, and Alfred surmises that if he posed any real danger, the dog would be aware of it.

They make it to the center of town, at which point Francis ties Barons's leash to a streetlamp and steers Alfred into a store. He has the boy try on at least ten different outfits, and by the time they're done, the boy is famished and ready to head back. They pass by the law firm, and Francis is sure to point it out so Alfred can know where it is for future reference. All in all, it's a productive trip, and Alfred feels a little more assured and less out of place.

Halfway back, however, Baron whines and refuses to continue, no matter how sweetly Francis talks to him or how many times he pulls on his leash.

"What's wrong with him?" Alfred asks, worried. The poor dog doesn't look too great, and after Francis finally gets him to walk a bit farther, he picks up a limp and whimpers pathetically. "C'mon, Baron. Don't you wanna go home?"

Francis pulls on his leash when he stops again and sighs. "I might have to carry him. The beast weighs at least seventy pounds."

He hefts him into his arms and hurries back toward the house, griping about stubborn pets taking after their owners.

When they finally do arrive, Arthur bursts out of the front door in a furious tirade, red faced and clearly panicked. "WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?"

He's so angry he can hardly breathe properly, hands clenched into fists. "I told you to stay inside!"

Alfred cowers behind Francis, eyes already filling with tears. He didn't want to make his new caretaker upset, but his itch for adventure was too strong and won over his good judgment.

"And Baron! What's happened to him?" Arthur demands, taking the dog from Francis's hold.

Francis rolls his eyes. "Relax, we just took a walk."

"Just a walk? I'm going to have to put hot compresses on his legs all night now. He can't walk that far with his arthritis."

Great, now Baron is hurt because of him too. A sob escapes Alfred, and before long, he's too overwrought to even look at Arthur. The man carries Baron into the house and then comes back out to deal with his disobedience, cross and impervious toward the hysterics. He exchanges some angry words and threats with Francis, takes the bag of clothes from him, and drags a now blubbering Alfred into the house.

"Stop crying," he insists, sitting the boy on the couch in the living room. "You disobeyed me. You promised you would stay inside and wouldn't answer the door. What if you had been hurt?"

Alfred sniffles. "It was only Francis."

"Even so, Francis is not in charge of your care, I am. What I say is all that matters. He should know not to take you around town without my permission. You had me worried sick! I had no idea where you had wandered off to, and with Baron nonetheless! It was extremely foolish of you," Arthur frets, heart rate finally slowing. "Don't _ever_ do that again. Am I understood?"

"Y-Yes. I'm sorry! I was just bored because I was all alone and—"

"That's no excuse for what you did. You could have spoken to me about it upon my return, and we could've discussed your feelings. Running off with people you don't know is never a wise decision."

Alfred dips his head in shame, hiccupping. Arthur gives him a handkerchief to wipe his face with, and when they've both calmed down, Alfred asks, "Will Baron be okay?"

"He'll be fine with rest. His joints are not as strong as they used to be."

It's good news, but then Alfred realizes he hasn't been properly punished yet. "Are you going to cane me?"

"Cane you? No, I won't," Arthur reassures, watching as Alfred visibly breathes a sigh of relief. "But don't give me a reason to."

Alfred gets another stern warning, and then Arthur softens his features and murmurs, "Now, why don't you show me those new clothes of yours? We'll have to pay Francis back for them."

"He said it was a gift."

"That's too expensive of a gift for me to accept without some form of repayment. He's taking the money whether he wants to or not. Bloody frog."

Alfred snickers, sadness already forgotten.

It's true, Francis is a bloody frog.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** I've decided to keep going! Thank you all for the feedback! Please enjoy the chapter, and remember to follow my blog on Tumblr (Mandelene Fics) for other info regarding my stories.

* * *

Arthur sure is a strange fellow.

Alfred's been around for a few days to get the gist of his routine, and it goes something like this: at precisely seven o'clock in the morning, the man is up and about for a cup of tea. It must be piping hot, strong, highly caffeinated, and sweetened with a single teaspoon of sugar. Then, once he has regained some awareness, he attempts to make breakfast, and sometimes (about a third of the time), those attempts are successful. He'll leave a plate for Alfred on the table, and although breakfast is not always palatable, Alfred eats it because he knows he shouldn't be wasteful, and he appreciates the effort Arthur goes through on his behalf.

Alfred will usually be up in time to share breakfast with Arthur at the table, but he has been guilty of sleeping in more than once. Thankfully, Arthur doesn't complain when he does. He says something along the lines of "growing boys need their rest" and leaves it at that.

After breakfast, it's feeding time for Baron. Supposedly, the dog is on a "special diet" for his joints, which means Arthur must feed him a peculiar blend of biscuits made of compressed meat and greens. He breaks them down into small pieces to make chewing easier for the mutt's tired gums and teeth, and although the biscuits don't look appetizing in the least, Baron happily gobbles them up.

Then, Arthur goes to his office, which can be found upstairs—the last room on the left. While he's in there, Alfred busies himself with entertaining Baron or playing with the wooden soldiers Arthur bought him. Once in a while, his new caretaker asks him to water the plants in the garden, tidy up his room, or sweep the floors, but generally, Alfred is free to do whatever he likes as long as he promises not to make a racket.

All in all, Arthur is pleasant company to be around. He always makes sure Alfred is fed, intently listens to the boy ramble about this and that, and has even started teaching him the alphabet. He stays patient when Alfred doesn't always understand how to do things and doesn't mind repeating himself more than once.

That being said, there are bad things about his new parent as well. For starters, he is distant. He can spend hours in his office without so much as a peep, and the main reason he ever steps away from his desk in the first place is to make sure Alfred hasn't gotten himself into any trouble.

And because the man is often too lost in his own work to be interacting with Alfred, the boy easily finds mischief in everything. Yesterday, he was out playing in the rain when he shouldn't have been, and Arthur gave him a long scolding, followed by a hot bath.

Arthur can be really mean and scary when he's cross. He has a lot of rules, and Alfred doesn't understand why some of them are important in the first place. Why can't he walk outside without an adult? He used to do it all of the time back in New York, and New York was much bigger in size—colossal compared to the bucolic town. Why does he need to take baths every night? He doesn't stink. Why isn't he allowed to have sweets before bed? Eating is supposed to be good for you. Why does he always have to fix his collar and tuck in his shirt? It's uncomfortable.

There are also times when the man is called to go down to the firm, and Alfred is left all alone in the house. When the weather is fair, he gets to play by the garden, but with the colder months drawing near, the boy is beginning to spend more time inside than ever before.

So when Arthur announces he has some errands to run in town, Alfred jumps at the chance to go with him. Together, they pick up some groceries and visit the post office, and though it's far from the adventure Alfred was hoping it would be, it's still better than sitting around and watching Baron snore.

"How about a treat?" Arthur suggests, and Alfred is all ears once again. "We'll visit the Beilschmidts—they own a sweet shop just a little ways down the road."

When the display of lollipops, caramel chews, and other goodies come into view, Alfred can feel himself salivating, wishing he could try a bit of everything without making himself horribly sick. Arthur slips a dime into his palm and sends him off to inspect the shelves while he lights a cigarette and speaks with the storeowners.

"Ahh, this is the scamp you took in. Tiny thing, isn't he?" one of the men behind the counter remarks, blinking at Arthur. His hair is so light it looks silver in the gleaming sunshine coming through the windows. A newspaper is splayed out before him, and the pads of his fingers are covered with ink. "Earning his keep around the house yet?"

Arthur exhales a stream of smoke through barely parted lips and simply says, "He's faring well enough. Alfred, have you picked something yet? By the time you're done browsing, they'll have closed the shop."

Alfred offers the man a sheepish smile and rocks on the heels of his feet. "I can't decide."

"Well then, don't take too long, all right?"

A quick nod, and Alfred is back to admiring the assortment of candy. He wants to make sure he chooses something he'll like, but he hasn't had sweets in a very long time, so he isn't sure of what his tastes are anymore.

"Gilbert, get a mop and clean the floor. You've been standing around all day," another man from behind the counter chimes in. This one has stark, blond hair and a pointed jaw.

"Yes, Your Highness."

Arthur gives the silver-haired man, Gilbert, a mocking smirk. "Ludwig is right. An idle mind is the devil's playground after all."

Finally making up his mind, Alfred plucks a chocolate bar off one of the shelves and returns to Arthur's side, gently tugging on the hem of his shirt to get his attention. "Can I have this one, please?"

"May you have this one?" Arthur corrects, placing a hand atop the child's head. "Yes, you may. Give Gilbert the money."

Alfred trades in the dime and gets his chocolate along with two pennies in change.

"What do we say, lad?"

"Thank-you."

They bid the Beilschmidt brothers farewell and step outside again, following the route home.

Talking to Arthur can be difficult sometimes because he uses words that Alfred doesn't always understand, but Alfred responds in the best way he can, usually settling for a hum of agreement or a nod.

There's a lot of stuff that Alfred still wants to find out though, and he supposes he'll have to start asking questions to get the answers.

He starts with the easiest inquiry first. "Do you know everybody in town?"

Arthur gives it a moment of thought and says, "Yes, or at least, I'd like to think so."

"But then how come Francis said you don't have friends? You have lots of friends!"

Arthur makes a choking sound in his throat and grimaces. "I suggest you take everything Francis says with a grain of salt. He's not the most reputable source of information around here."

"When can I see Francis again?"

"Why would you want to see him?" Arthur huffs, bristling.

Maybe that wasn't a good question to ask. Alfred lowers his gaze to his shoes and mutters, "I don't know. Maybe he can take me places."

"Take you places?"

"You work, and sometimes I want to go out and do things, but you're busy in your office…" Alfred admits, shoulders hunched in a blend of fear and shame for talking badly of his caretaker.

Neither of them say anything for a minute. They let the words hang and droop over their heads until they're both woebegone and filled with regret.

Arthur sighs, rubs a hand over his eyes, and murmurs, "I'm sorry. You're right—I don't spend enough time with you. My job can be very demanding, and there are people who are counting on me to devote my efforts into representing them and speaking on their behalf. I-I will try to do better. It wasn't my intention to make you feel ignored."

"I know. I'm sorry for being selfish," Alfred frowns, scuffing a shoe in frustration.

"No, no, you're not selfish. I'm the one to blame," Arthur assures him with a weary sigh. "I'm afraid I've bitten off more than I can chew."

And there it is—that look of loneliness in Arthur's eyes again.

Alfred knows how awful loneliness can be. He remembers being on his own for a while after Mom and his brother, Mattie, came down with yellow fever. They grew sicker and sicker until there was nothing Alfred could do but wish he could go to heaven with them.

Long nights of mourning followed—tears and screams no one could hear beyond the walls of their apartment. He lay in bed for a week, too overcome with grief to move, but someone in the building must have noticed something was wrong because the police soon came knocking on the door and carried him away to a children's home.

That's what they call it anyway, a children's home. It's more like a facility. Most of them are run by the local churches, but their religious affiliation doesn't serve to make the places any friendlier. Alfred tried to run away many times, but he would always end up with a swatting and be sent back to wait for a family with hundreds of others. Then, the trains would come, and they'd be shipped out west like cargo.

"I think it would be best to enroll you in school," Arthur proposes when they enter the house, ignoring the way Baron shoves his head into his side for a round of petting. "Would you like that?"

It doesn't sound bad. Alfred has often wondered what school is like, but what if everyone is far ahead of him in terms of knowledge? What if he's too dumb to learn anything, and everybody laughs at him?

"I've never been to school before," he tells Arthur, hoping he won't have to say anything else to explain the dilemma. Papa never went to school either. As soon as he could move his hands, he started working in a factory. It's the way he always lived. It's the way he died too—working.

Arthur scratches behind Baron's semi-floppy ears and smiles. "That's not a problem. There are students of all levels and ages at the school. You'll fit right in."

"Okay," Alfred agrees, finishing the last bits of his chocolate bar. The warm, milky aftertaste leaves him feeling giddy.

"Wonderful! It seems as though things are finally falling into place, doesn't it?"

* * *

The first time he has a spasm since the train ride is about two weeks into his stay with Arthur. The day is muggy, the sun hangs quietly behind the clouds, and a miserable drizzle plagues them throughout the entire day, too much of a nuisance to allow them to go outside but not strong enough to flood the garden.

The air is thick and sticky. It makes Alfred's chest feel a little heavy, and a tightness contracts in his lungs, burning and tingling as though he's inhaled a big billow of smoke from a cigar. He struggles to take a breath, and when he does, a horrible wheeze reverberates out of his throat.

He doesn't want to disturb Arthur when he's working, but this seems like as good of an excuse as any to go into his office. Shakily, he climbs the steps and knocks on the office door, waiting to be invited in because Arthur says it's rude to do otherwise.

"Come in."

The door seems impossibly heavy, but he opens it with a rough push, staggering to regain his balance. Arthur, unsurprisingly, is scribbling away at something on his desk, oblivious to the outside world. He doesn't even look up until Alfred starts to cry, tiny sobs hiccupping out of his mouth around dribbling mucus.

Arthur jumps to his feet at once and puts his hands on the boy's shoulders, searching his face for an explanation. "Dear god, Alfred! What's wrong?"

"It's one of m-my lung spasms," Alfred whimpers, striking out his hands to shield himself. Mr. Vargas used to hit him for being this hysterical. He would yank him up by the shoulder and tell him to toughen up or else he'd never find a good home.

"Lung spasms? How—?" Arthur lets his words die on his lips and goes about trying to make Alfred feel better instead. He puts a hand on the child's head, wipes his eyes and nose with a handkerchief, and steers him into his bedroom. When the boy is properly tucked in, Arthur heads into his office once more to make a quick phone call, battling to control his panic.

Alfred can hear him from bed.

"Ivan? It's Arthur Kirkland. I apologize for calling so suddenly—no, no, that won't be necessary… Alfred is sick… He's ten… No fever. He's just struggling to catch his breath… Yes, that's what I suspect as well."

The wind has been knocked out of him. It feels like he's been running a race all day, even though he's been loafing around the house since he woke up. A sweat breaks out on his forehead, and he groans, sucking in sharp breath after sharp breath until Arthur comes back into the room and gently hums that everything is going to be fine.

"I'm not faking," Alfred says miserably, shaking with tremors. "Mr. V-Vargas says I'm looking for attention, but I'm n-not!"

Arthur sits on the edge of the bed and gives him a startled glance. "Vargas," he hisses after a moment, shoulders rigid. "How long have you been having these 'spasms', Alfred?"

"S-Since I was in the children's home."

"I'll kill him. I'll _kill_ him," Arthur fumes, standing up and pacing about the room. "The damned idiot. He told me—never mind that now. I'll deal with Vargas later. Preferably, in court."

All this talk of killing people makes Alfred scared, and Arthur seems to notice because he calms himself considerably. His shoulders slump forward, and he straightens the bedsheets, one hand on Alfred's knee.

"You're going to be all right. The doctor is on his way."

Alfred's head has begun to hurt from all of his crying, but he nods anyway. "I'm sorry. Are you going to send me back to Mr. Vargas now?"

"What? No, of course not! Why would I do such a thing?"

"Cause I'm not fit for nothing," Alfred whimpers, nearly jumping out of his skin when Arthur pulls him into a hug. He can't remember the last time he was held.

"You're staying right here—at home."

Just then, someone knocks on the door, and Arthur briskly gets up to greet them. He hurries down the stairs and shares a few words with the visitor before they both make their way to Alfred's room.

"He's in here. Gave me a fright. It's only been two weeks, and he's already ill," Arthur murmurs, stepping aside to reveal a large man with a leather messenger bag and a wool trench coat. He's so tall that his head almost touches the top of the doorframe.

He approaches Alfred's bed with a pearly smile, boots squeaking against the floor. "Hello, little one."

Alfred pulls the duvet up to his eyes and cowers. He thought giants only existed in fairytales!

"It's okay, lad," Arthur reassures him, arms crossed over his chest. "Ivan is here to help."

"Arthur, this is worse than I thought. Can you hear how he's wheezing?"

"I wish I couldn't. What are we going to do?"

Ivan clicks his tongue and unzips his leather bag. "We'll do what we did for those returning from the Great War."

"And what's that?"

"Come here and hold him still."

Suddenly, there are two pairs of hands pinning Alfred to the bed, and Ivan pours a nauseatingly brown liquid onto a silver spoon. Alfred doesn't hesitate to clamp his mouth shut, eyes wide and frantic as the spoon is poked against his lips.

He tries to twist his head to the side, but Arthur's hands are firmly holding his head in place, and he has no choice but to let his jaw fall open.

"That's it," Arthur praises as Ivan feeds him the horrific stuff.

It burns, and he almost manages to spit it out, but Ivan holds a hand over his lips and firmly orders him to swallow. When the spoon is taken out of his mouth, Alfred bursts into tears again, and Arthur strokes his arm comfortingly, trying to hush his sobs.

"There, there. It's over now. You should feel better soon. Just close your eyes and relax."

His breathing does become more even after a few minutes, and he lets his head loll against the pillows in exhaustion, trembles dying down.

Arthur smiles wearily at Ivan and says, "Thank you. What was in the bottle?"

"Ephedrine. Stimulates the nervous system," Ivan explains, watching Alfred pant and cough with muted curiosity. "He's going to feel restless for a while. Keep an eye on him. If his condition doesn't improve within the hour, call me."

"All right. Hang on, I'll see you out."

Arthur makes a move to leave the bedside, but Alfred snatches his hand in his and whines. "Don't leave me."

"I'll only be gone for a moment, my boy."

Ivan grins at the two and shakes his head. "You'd better stay, Arthur. He'll recover more quickly with some company."

"Don't leave," Alfred repeats, a little louder this time in the hopes that he'll be taken more seriously. Arthur is all he has. He's the only friend in a sea of people he still doesn't know all that well, and he doesn't want to lose him.

Green eyes find the blue, and Arthur finally whispers, "Okay, okay. I'm right here. I won't leave you."

* * *

"Catch me if you can!" Alfred giggles, squealing when a figure slightly smaller than his slams into his back and knocks him to the ground. If he were home, he'd probably be yelled at for rolling around in the mud, but at school, anything goes as long as you stay out of the sights of a teacher.

And boy, is school fun. Not only does he get to horse around with his friends, but he also gets to learn all kinds of things about the world and then show off what he knows to others. He's ahead of some of the boys his age, thanks to Arthur teaching him all of his letters and how to sound out syllables. He's also an incredibly fast learner. By the end of his first week at school, he's able to read full sentences without stumbling over any words.

Toris, one of the boys in his class, has become a close friend. He's a tad on the timid side, but once he gets familiar with someone, he's as outgoing as all of the other children. He happens to be Ivan's son, and when Alfred tells Toris about the time Ivan helped him with his lung spasms, they become attached at the hip.

"I win!" Toris cheers, rolling off of Alfred's back. "You're too slow!"

Alfred measures a good shove at the boy and huffs. "Am not!"

"Are too!"

At the end of the day, Arthur picks Alfred up and walks him home. He's always waiting by the crooked fence just outside the schoolhouse, making small talk with the occasional passerby. He looks so natural standing there, as though he's meant to be the town's witness.

"Did you have a good day?"

"Uh-huh! Mr. Honda taught us all about the war. You know, the one in nineteen-fourteen?"

Arthur reaches down and swipes some of the chalk-dust off of Alfred's knickerbockers and black stockings. "Mm-hmm. I daresay I know quite a bit about it."

"Some of the boys in class said their dads fought in the war. How about you, Arthur?"

"Pardon?"

"Did you fight in the war?"

A dark look passes over Arthur's face, but it's gone as quickly as it comes. "No, I did not."

"Why not? Mr. Honda says everybody had to fight. That's what a draft is for," Alfred continues, kicking pebbles down the road.

Arthur takes a puff of a cigarette and shrugs. "I-It's complicated, lad. Someday, when you're old enough to understand, I'll explain."

"I'm old enough now!"

"Not old enough," Arthur insists, clearing his throat with a rough cough.

Alfred can tell this is an argument he isn't going to win, so he drops the topic for now. They keep walking in silence, until another inquisitive thought crosses his mind. "Hey, Arthur? You're an immigrant, right? You're not from America."

"Yes, I am. I was born in England. You know this."

"Yeah, I'm just double checking. Mr. Honda says this town is full of immigrants. All of America is filled with immigrants. Everybody comes here for a better life," Alfred says, matter-of-fact. "A bunch of immigrants came here after the war ended, did you know? They couldn't live in Europe anymore because there wasn't much food and everything was destroyed."

Arthur nods and puts his cigarette out in the ashtray that's on the porch. "Life is never easy during times of war, Alfred."

"Did you leave England for a better life, Arthur?"

"I suppose you could say that," Arthur sighs, plopping himself in one of the wooden chairs on the porch. He didn't seem to be ready to head inside yet. "I knew it'd be more peaceful here, and I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to leave. Leaving home wasn't a simple matter either. I had to say goodbye to my family, and I'd never been outside of the city, let alone the country. Oh, and the journey… My God, what a mess that was."

Alfred hops up and down the porch steps, listening to the creak of each wooden board. He's lost most of his interest in what Arthur is saying, but it would be mean to cut him off when he's on such a rant.

"But things worked out for the better. And now I have you," Arthur says with bright eyes, holding out his arms for Alfred to come closer. The boy doesn't hesitate to run over and sit on his lap, laughing at the way Arthur exaggerates a groan and complains about how much bigger he's becoming.

Arthur's not such an awkward papa anymore. Slowly but surely, they have grown used to each other's presence, comfortable and content. It's made Arthur more physically affectionate, and Alfred happily accepts his frequent embraces and squeezes, recalling how his mother used to cuddle him and Mattie.

They've both missed out on many hugs over the years.

"What's England like?" Alfred asks, swinging his legs.

"It's like America, except a bit smaller and full of old castles. That's what most of Europe is like," Arthur replies with a hint of sarcasm. "The culture is different too. America is more casual while Europe prides itself in antiquated customs and regality. Europe is one big social event."

"Would you go back?"

Arthur scoots him off of his lap and stands up, working out the kinks in his neck. "I don't know. Maybe someday. Now, enough with the questions. Go wash up for dinner."

"What's for dinner?"

"Flounder."

Alfred frowns. Fish is definitely not Arthur's specialty.

"Is there a problem?" Arthur asks, noticing Alfred's wrinkled nose.

Well, it could be worse.

"Nope, not at all!"


	3. Chapter 3

You can tell a lot about people just by watching them. Really watching them, that is.

When he's not in school, Alfred often finds himself sitting on the porch and just observing things—like how Francis always touches the front door to his house before unlocking it, as though he's checking to see if it's really there or if he's imagining it. Or how Gilbert Beilschmidt buys _The Illinois Inquirer_ each morning and turns to page five to read the international section.

People say nothing goes on in small towns. People are wrong. The _best_ stuff goes on in small towns.

On the third of December, at six o'clock in the evening, Ms. Hedervary's cat, Budapest, goes missing. Alfred knows this because Ms. Hedervary knocks on their door on the fourth and asks them if they know anything about the disappearance, and Arthur tells her that no, they haven't seen him, but that they'll be sure to let her know if they do.

She seems quite distraught over the whole ordeal, so Alfred draws himself up to his full height and tells her that he'll do everything he can to find Budapest.

"Oh, thank you, sweetheart. You're such a dear, but you don't have to worry yourself over it."

"No, no!" Alfred assures. Arthur's hand is on his shoulder, as if to say "that's enough of that," but he ignores him. "I promise I'll help you find him. I'll ask everyone in town what they know! It'll be like a police investigation!"

Arthur makes a noise of disapproval and pulls Alfred away from Ms. Hedervary with an arm around his waist. "Hush, Alfred. You won't be doing anything of the sort until you finish your homework."

Ms. Hedervary gives them both a teary smile, looking a little more cheerful upon witnessing their bickering. "Alfred, you just take good care of Arthur. Make sure he doesn't get into any trouble."

It's a weird thing to say. Alfred can't quite describe it, but it's almost as if she seems satisfied to see the pair of them together before she leaves, the heels of her shoes clicking as she walks.

But once Arthur shuts the door behind her, Alfred pushes the strange happenings out of his mind and immediately glowers at his guardian instead. "What'd ya do that for? I could've helped her!"

"You're only a child, Alfred. I'm sure Elizabeta will find her cat."

"But how can you be sure? We gotta ask around! Friends help each other out, and Ms. Hedervary's a friend, right?"

Arthur looks up at the ceiling and says, "Dear Lord, give me strength."

" _Arthuuuuuur_!"

"All right. If you want to look into the matter further, that's your decision, but you may only do so _after_ you've tended to your other responsibilities, am I clear?"

"Crystal clear," Alfred agrees, shrieking with laughter when Arthur suddenly takes to tickling his sides. "S-Stop that!"

Arthur makes a funny face and lets him go. "Fancy yourself a detective now, hmm?"

"Yup! Detective Alfred Jones!" Alfred states, puffing out his chest. This is his first mystery to solve! Soon, all of Illinois will know his name. He'll be just like Sherlock Holmes except even more awesome! "I bet Gilbert from _Beilschmidt's Sweets_ did it. He's always talking to Ms. Hedervary, so he must know something."

Arthur props himself on the couch and opens up a novel from the little library in his office. There's a thoughtful shimmer of amusement in his eyes. "You mustn't go around accusing people without any evidence to defend your case, Alfred. First, you should interrogate a few individuals around town. Then, you can narrow down your findings and follow a lead."

It's a good point, and if Alfred's going to be a proper detective, he supposes he should follow Arthur's recommendations. He fetches a spare notebook from his room and starts plotting the list of people he wants to talk to. Tomorrow is Saturday, which means he'll have to hold off on questioning people like Mr. Honda and Toris until Monday.

He peeks over at Arthur and asks, "Who should I go to first?"

Arthur lowers his book and narrows his eyes at Alfred, scrutinizing him with a frown. "Francis," he decides. "I'm taking you to him first thing in the morning so he can cut that mane of yours."

Francis is a pretty talented barber and hairdresser. Both men and women flock to his salon, and business is never slow. Still, Alfred hasn't had his hair cut in a long time, and he can't help but feel a little anxious at the thought of someone holding sharp objects so close to his scalp.

"Do I havta go?" Alfred groans, pulling his knees up to his chest. There the man goes again—sucking all the fun out of everything!

"Yes. I can barely see your eyes with all of that hair in the way."

It's not the most heroic way to kick off his investigation, but he supposes it'll have to do.

* * *

"Ah, there is my favorite boy!" Francis exclaims as they walk through the door, thin-toothed comb in one hand and a broom for sweeping up hair in the other. He gallivants over to them, exchanging a good-natured handshake with Arthur before flashing Alfred a gleaming smile.

"Oh, I'm flattered," Arthur jokes, giving Alfred an encouraging push forward. "I knew you would come to fully appreciate my existence someday."

Francis rolls his eyes and snarls, "Not you! Come here, Alfred. Have you gotten taller? Take a seat—I won't bite, not with Arthur here, anyway."

With the speed of a sloth, Alfred drags his feet over to the swivel chair and sits down. He put up a bit of a fuss this morning, refusing to leave the house because he didn't see what was wrong with his hair anyway. He likes the way it is. So what if it's getting a little long? If they cut it, it's just going to grow back again anyway. This whole hair-cutting business is nonsensical in his opinion.

Arthur takes up a chair in the nearby waiting area and says, "He's a little nervous, so be gentle."

"I'm always gentle," Francis proclaims, adjusting the height of Alfred's chair to have better access to his head. "What kind of style did you have in mind, _mon chou_? Something slicked back and trendy like the Hollywood movie stars nowadays?"

Alfred sinks further in his seat and flinches away from Francis as the man runs a hand through his hair to get out the most prominent tangles.

"Don't make it too short," Arthur warns, a business magazine in his lap. "Just a trim."

"A trim it is, then. Do not be afraid, Alfred. You can see exactly what I'm doing in the mirror, and if you don't like it, I can fix it, okay?"

Feeling a little better now that he knows his head isn't going to be shaved, Alfred nods and lets Francis work without complaint, settling down within minutes. Halfway through the job, Alfred starts feeling brave enough to confront Francis about the pressing questions that he's had in mind. "Hey, Francis? Did you know Ms. Hedervary's cat went missing?"

"Ahh, yes. I'm afraid I did hear about that. It's a terrible thing."

"Yeah, well, I'm trying to figure out what happened to him."

From the waiting area, Arthur raises his brows and adds, "Detective Jones is leading an ongoing investigation."

"Hmm, I see," Francis murmurs with a chuckle before snipping away at Alfred's bangs. "Am I allowed to have my lawyer present?"

Alfred purses his lips and sneezes when a piece of his hair lands on his nose. "Uhh, sure. Arthur can be your lawyer."

"Well, I guess we're all set then. Ask away."

"Where were you on Thursday, December third, nineteen twenty-nine, at six o'clock?"

Francis smiles at the sideways glance he gets from Arthur and says, "I would have been here, cutting hair as usual. I close at eight."

"You would have been here, or you were here?" Alfred presses, wearing a skeptical expression.

"I was here," Francis amends, trying not to laugh.

"Wait, I gotta write this down!"

Arthur waves a hand of dismissal and jumps in. "I'll remember for you. You can write it later."

"Okay. So, Francis, would you call Ms. Hedervary a friend of yours?"

Francis nods and rids Alfred of a pesky split-end. "Yes, I've known Elizabeta for many years."

"Do you know if she had any enemies?"

"No, she seems to get along with everyone. Well, everyone except Gilbert, there's a fiery relationship there, but it's a history I won't go into."

"Do you think Gilbert could have taken her cat?"

"No, why would he do something like that? Gilbert is many things, but he isn't a thief."

"Just wanted to get your opinion," Alfred placates him.

Francis dusts some hair off of Alfred's neck and takes off the silly bib that everyone at the barber's has to wear. Then, he puts a dollop of hairstyling gel in his hair to smooth out some of the shaggy ends. "There, all done! You're as handsome as ever, don't you agree?"

Alfred climbs out of the swivel chair and takes a good look at himself in the mirror, pleased with the result. Arthur also seems to approve because he pays Francis and tips him well.

"I might have more questions for you later," Alfred tells him as Arthur ushers him out of the salon. "Don't leave town."

This time, Francis doesn't even bother trying to suppress a booming laugh.

* * *

Truth be told, Francis's information doesn't really help Alfred's investigation very much. It just reiterates Alfred's initial suspicions concerning Gilbert.

The man is shifty, that much is clear. Francis also mentioned he has a long history with Ms. Hedervary, but what could that mean? Only one way to find out.

"Arthur, I gotta go and see the Beilschmidts."

His new guardian is rather understanding, and takes Alfred down to the sweet shop within the hour. There, they find Gilbert standing behind the counter as always with a box of cigarettes, another newspaper, and a scratch-off lottery ticket. Suspicious, indeed. His expression just screams of cat-murderer. Alfred wouldn't be surprised if he had Budapest's corpse hidden right behind the counter.

"I'll be at the other end of the store if you need me. I've got some reading to catch up on," Arthur mutters, giving Alfred's shoulder a good squeeze before walking off.

Time to get down to business. The confrontation with Francis was just a warm-up. Now he's got to fry some bigger fish. He walks straight up to Gilbert and slaps a hand on the countertop, determined to get a few answers once and for all.

Gilbert lifts his eyes from his newspaper and regards Alfred with a neutral air. "Hey, squirt. Arthur told me you'd be coming after me."

"Where were you on Thursday, December third, nineteen _twenty_ -nine, at exactly six o'clock?"

"Phew, right down to the questions, huh? I'm not even going to get a hello? Well, all right. I was here, in the shop, restocking some shelves with jawbreakers."

Alfred makes a show of opening up his notebook and taps his pencil against a page. "How long have you known Ms. Hedervary for?"

"Elizabeta? Hmm, it's gotta be around twenty-five years now. I've known her since we were kids, and I'm turning thirty soon," Gilbert reveals, using a penny to get his numbers on the scratch-off lottery ticket. "Been playing the lottery since the day I turned eighteen. You would've thought a poor, old bastard like me would've won at least a nickel by now."

"Hey!" Arthur shouts from one of the tables in the corner. "Watch your foul mouth, please!"

"Whoops. Sorry!"

"Don't let it happen again!"

"Uh-huh. Yeah, kid. I dunno what else to tell you," Gilbert mumbles before taking a big bite out of a caramel apple. "I don't know anything about Elizabeta's cat, except that she's had him for a few years now."

Alfred cocks his head to the side. "How did you know I was going to ask about Budapest?"

"Well, that's why you're here, right? Like I said, Arthur told me you'd come to hunt me down."

"Rumors around town say that you and Elizabeta have a 'fiery' relationship."

Gilbert furrows his brows and licks his lips free of apple nectar. "Who said that?"

"Sources…" Alfred mumbles, feeling mischievous. He doodles a basket full of kittens in one of the margins of his notebook. "Anyway, what do you think they mean by that?"

Gilbert scowls, and if looks could kill, poor Arthur would be lying cold and stiff on the ground. "Look, kid. Don't get involved in other people's personal lives."

"A cat's life is at stake!"

"It's not my cat, so it's not my problem," Gilbert growls, wincing when Ludwig steps out of the back-room to swat him over the head. He nearly chokes on a chunk of his apple. "What was that for?"

Ludwig smacks Gilbert on the back and mutters, "Be nice and behave."

"I _am_ behaving."

Watching them argue makes Alfred sad. He wonders if he and Mattie would've gotten into petty fights like this had they been given the chance to grow old together. Would they have opened a candy store and started drinking and smoking and yelling at the neighborhood kids? They could eat all of the candy they wanted, whenever they wanted it, and no one would be around to tell them no.

"Gilbert, don't be cross. He doesn't understand," Arthur says carefully, eyes still fixated on his book.

After a long grumble of discontent, Gilbert is ready to resume the interrogation. "All right. Elizabeta and I used to be a couple, but not anymore."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm an as—"

" _Gilbert_ ," Arthur cautions him again.

"I'm a big jerkface," Gilbert finishes with a snuffle. "That's done and over with now."

Interesting stuff. Alfred scribbles a few notes and considers everything Gilbert has told him, thinking hard. Suddenly, he doesn't think Gilbert is a killer anymore. No, that would be too simple. Plus, he's only shifty on the surface, not deep down. "Did you love her?"

"Did I—?" Gilbert gapes at him like the flounder Alfred had to stomach the other day. "Yeah, I guess I did. I loved her."

"Do you still love her?"

"To be honest, I don't know, kid. Maybe."

What's there to be uncertain about? Adults sure make things unnecessarily complicated. Either someone gives you butterflies in your belly or they don't. It's a simple deduction to make, Alfred thinks.

"If you help her find Budapest, maybe you guys can get back together again," Alfred suggests, eager. Not only can he solve this mystery, but he could also get Elizabeta and Gilbert to reconcile, and then Gilbert wouldn't have to be so sour and sullen all of the time.

A hand connects with the top of his head, and Alfred looks up to see a wistful Arthur looming over him.

"I think that's enough questioning for today, my boy."

* * *

Day five of the investigation comes and goes, and Budapest still isn't anywhere to be found. Mr. Honda says he thinks he saw the fluff-ball wandering Ms. Hedervary's yard around seven on the day he went missing, but he always takes catnaps in the yard around that time, so it wouldn't be anything out of the ordinary. What Alfred needs to know is what happened to the cat after he was finished sleeping in the yard.

Ivan and Toris weren't even aware Ms. Hedervary had a cat, but they promise to keep their eyes peeled for any future sightings.

"Remember, he's white with brown splotches and pointy ears," Alfred reminds them.

Of course, there's still one person he hasn't questioned. It's best to cover all of his bases, and this one fellow sure looks like he's hiding something.

"Arthur, where were you on Thursday, December third, nineteen twenty-nine, at six o'clock?"

His parent turns down the volume of the radio and shrugs, awfully shifty. _Awfully shifty_ , indeed. "Well, Detective Jones, I was in my office, working on a case."

"You don't say," Alfred murmurs, squinting at the man.

"You've been squinting quite a lot recently. I think we'll have to take you to get some spectacles."

"Don't try to change the subject!"

Arthur sighs, rubs the back of his neck, and writes 'OPTOMETRIST' on a scrap of paper to remind himself to make an appointment for the boy. "All right. What else do you want to know?"

"What do you know about Budapest?"

"Nothing much, aside from what you've told me," Arthur responds, a bit hurried.

Alfred nibbles on the end of his pencil and snaps his fingers. "You've been following me around this whole time."

"I've been supervising."

"Yeah, and you thought I wouldn't make you a suspect, but everyone's a suspect, Arthur. _Everyone_. We can't rule anyone out yet."

"Oh, I understand," Arthur replies innocently, forcing down a smile. "Who do you think is the perpetrator?"

"Perpetrator?"

"The one who did it," Arthur clarifies.

"Oh… I don't know. You tell me. You're acting _mighty_ calm. Maybe you already figured it out."

Arthur shrugs his shoulders again and screws his face up when Baron jumps on the couch to lick his cheek. "It was probably Francis. He can't be trusted."

"Baron thinks you're hiding something too."

"Now you're accusing me? Where's your proof?"

Alfred closes his notebook and looks at Arthur with a piercing gaze, trying to decipher the many emotions packed together in those green eyes. He's not an easy person to read. "I wanna go into the office."

Baron collapses in Arthur's lap for one of many tummy rubs, paws twitching with enthusiasm.

"You'll need a search warrant for that," Arthur states.

"What's that?"

"It's a paper signed by a judge that says exactly why you're going through someone's personal property and what you'll be looking for."

Alfred stretches his lips into a dimply grin and angelically says, "I don't know any judges though, so can't you just let me look without a warrant?"

"I don't know, Detective Jones."

"What do you have to hide?"

Arthur smirks, one hand still massaging circles into Baron's belly. "I'm not in any trouble, am I, Detective Jones?"

"Let's hope not," Alfred retorts, watching Arthur get off of the couch and ascend the stairs.

"Come along, then."

Alfred climbs the stairs two at a time, heart pounding with anticipation. He doesn't waste any time in hurtling through the door to Arthur's office, completely immersed in this cat mystery.

And that's when he sees _it_.

Right there, smack dab in the middle of Arthur's desk, is a cat collar with a little jingle bell at the end of it. He picks it up with both hands, turns it over a few times, and looks to Arthur in confusion. "How—?"

"Congratulations, you solved the mystery," Arthur announces, eyes shining. "Now, off to bed with you. It's getting late."

"W-Wait. What? Where's Budapest, then?"

"Elizabeta found her cat in the park three days ago, but that didn't seem like a very good end to a mystery, so I let you investigate a little longer."

Something in Alfred's chest falls to his stomach—he feels it. It's like a stone being dropped down a pit. "Y-You didn't tell me?"

The smug expression on Arthur's face is quickly replaced with one of regret. "You were having such a swell time, and you were getting to know everyone in town. I didn't think it was fair to have the adventure end so soon."

So that's it. The mystery he solved wasn't a mystery at all. It was all just an elaborate plan on Arthur's part. Before he can stop himself, he feels his eyes fill with angry tears.

"I hate you!" he screams, throwing his notebook down on the rug. "You lied to me!"

"Alfred, I didn't—"

"How could you do that?"

He's out of the office before Arthur can catch him, and he locks himself in his bedroom, positive he's about to start seeing in red.

"Alfred! Open the door!"

"No!"

" _Alfred_. That's not how you are to speak to me. If you don't open this door right now, you'll go without dessert for a week."

Forget dessert. He doesn't care anymore.

"Two weeks. Three weeks. A month, and you're not allowed to play with Toris! This lock is coming straight off when you come out of there."

"You're the worst parent ever!"

He doesn't mean it, of course. It's such a stupid thing to say, but it's too late to take his words back, and Arthur seems to be impacted by them because he stops knocking on the door and retreats somewhere down the hall instead.

Well, he's done it now. Arthur is definitely going to make him board the next train to the children's home in New York. And for what? For a dumb argument over a mystery game? It's all so infuriatingly ridiculous that he can't stand it.

He unlocks the door and painfully swallows his pride. He can hear Arthur in the master bedroom, and it isn't often that he goes in there. Usually, the only time he goes into Arthur's room is when he's scared or isn't feeling good because of a lung spasm.

"Arthur? Please, don't be mad," he whispers, lowering his gaze to the floor as tears dribble down his nose. "I-I'm really sorry. You just wanted to make me happy. I didn't mean to yell at you. I'm a bad kid. A bad son. I don't blame you if you just want to send me to another family. You deserve someone good."

He doesn't look up when he feels arms around his shoulders, nor does he look up when a handkerchief is wiped across his face.

"How many times do I have to tell you I'm not going to send you away for you to believe me?" Arthur asks him, voice very soft. "Every boy misbehaves, and you are no exception."

"S-Sorry."

"I know you are."

Alfred throws his arms around Arthur's chest and buries his head in his sweater. So safe. So warm. So protective. He never wants to let go. "You're a good parent."

Arthur doesn't seem to know what to say, so he doesn't say anything at all.

"I don't deserve dessert for two whole months! And you should make me scrub the floors in the bathroom!"

"We'll see," Arthur decides, ruffling the child's hair.

"Can I still get a story before bed?"

"No. Only children who listen to their parents are allowed to hear bedtime stories."

Alfred frowns. That's fair, he supposes. He did say some pretty awful stuff, and he can tell Arthur is still stunned by the incident.

"But I'll tuck you in, all right?"

* * *

" _The German economy remains stagnant for a consecutive year. Inflation is on the rise_ ," the radio drones as Alfred rubs his eyes and makes his way into the living room. A warm breakfast is already waiting on the table, and he doesn't hesitate to dig in while Arthur finishes up with preparing some tea. There's a flurry of snow blowing about in the wind outside—the first real snowfall of the season—but the flakes melt as soon as they touch the ground.

"I might not be able to pick you up from school today, Alfred. Do you think you would be able to walk yourself?" Arthur asks him as he sits down, rubbing at a knot in his shoulder. "I trust you know the way by now?"

Eager to prove himself, Alfred nods right away, almost too excited to swallow his oatmeal. He's big enough to do things on his own, and too often, it feels like Arthur shelters him unnecessarily. "Yeah! I can do it!"

Arthur seems a little reluctant, especially when he recalls what happened the last time he left the boy without any supervision. "You are to walk _straight_ home. Can I trust you to act responsibly and not go wandering off?"

"Yes! I promise!"

"Ah, I'm afraid I've heard that line before," Arthur says with a conceding sigh. The boy has broken his promises before, as every short-sighted child does. "Fine. It's settled then. I have some business to discuss with a client at the firm, and it's quite serious, so I may not be home until dinner."

"What kind of business? Did something happen?"

"It's nothing you have to concern yourself with."

Alfred isn't surprised that Arthur won't share any details of a case with him. He rarely ever does. Once again, he looks over at the man's wedding ring and wonders what else he isn't telling him.

As though reading his mind, Arthur clears his throat and says, "I believe I've told you this before, my boy, but I'll say it again. There are some things you wouldn't understand, Alfred. Pray you aren't asked to understand them for a good while."

Everything happens in small towns.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** I'm sorry for the slow updates. School has swallowed up a lot of my time, but chapter four is finally here! Please enjoy and leave a review!

* * *

"Mr. Honda, I finished my poem."

"Ahh, very good, Alfred. Bring it here."

Today they're studying the development of poetry throughout each century, as well as the different types of poems that can be found across various cultures. Surprisingly, it's more fun than it sounds, and Alfred is competing with Toris to see who can come up with the best haiku. The hardest part is making sure one counts all of the syllables correctly.

He goes up to the large desk at the front of the classroom and hands Mr. Honda his notebook, waiting with bated breath for the teacher's feedback.

 _"The snow fell today_

 _Over the Mississippi,_

 _But the fish still swim."_

Mr. Honda reads the poem twice and smiles softly, brown eyes filling with mirth. "You're an excellent poet, Alfred. That's going to be a problem for you."

"A problem? Why?"

"The mind of a poet works in mysterious ways, and it is often misunderstood," Mr. Honda explains before making a checkmark on the page with his pen. After another nod and hum of approval, he sends Alfred off to draw while the rest of the class finishes their work. The remainder of the lesson goes by quickly, and by the time all of the poems are completed, it's almost time to go home.

Alfred buttons his coat and looks out the nearest window, checking to see if Arthur happened to get out of work early after all, but no such luck. The man's usual spot by the white fence is vacant, and although Alfred's still excited to be walking home alone, he can feel a little sting of loneliness in his chest.

When class is dismissed, he trudges his way past the school doors in his boots and out into the glum overcast of the day. They'd been bombarded by a storm of sleet last night, and although the rain and snow have stopped now, it's still unpleasantly frigid outside.

He passes the white fence and makes his way down the block, resisting the urge to dawdle when he remembers how he promised Arthur to go home right away. True to his word, he doesn't take any detours, but he slows his pace so that he can appreciate the peaceful walk. Every now and then, he looks to the dark and downy clouds in the distance, fascinated by how haunting they appear to be.

With his mind in other places, he notices a bit belatedly that Gilbert, who is clearly returning from buying his lunch and daily newspaper, is walking towards him. The man regards him with a little jerk of the head and a wave. He doesn't seem to be in a good mood, but he's not in a bad mood either, and sometimes, that's as happy as Gilbert gets.

Alfred opens his mouth to say hello, but as soon as he does, his right foot loses traction with the ground, and he is suddenly made very aware of the winding path of ice covering the concrete. He barely has time to gasp before he pitches forward and desperately starts waving his arms to regain his balance.

Thankfully, Gilbert is close enough that he is able to stretch his arms out and catch him with a little grunt before he hits the ice.

"Careful, squirt. You could've knocked all of your teeth loose," Gilbert teases when they both right themselves. "Anything hurt?"

Alfred sucks in a startled breath but relaxes when he sees that no harm has been done. "No, I'm okay. Thanks! That was close."

" _Ja_ , don't mention it. Watch your feet next time. The ice isn't always easy to see... Where's Arthur?"

"He had to meet with someone for a case."

"Busy as usual, huh?" Gilbert asks, apparently quite familiar with the situation. He pulls a cigarette out of the inside pocket of his jacket and lights it with great care before taking a lengthy drag. "He's always been that way though. He takes his work seriously. So, are you coming back from school or what?"

"Yeah, class just ended."

"Hmm, what are they teaching you kids these days?"

"Well, right now we're learning about poetry."

Gilbert scoffs, taking Alfred's words as a personal insult. "Poetry? They should teach you the stuff you'll actually need to know in life, like how to recognize a sleazy politician from a distance, or how to ignore the propaganda in the newspapers."

Confused, Alfred simply says, "Mr. Honda told us that a man who doesn't know how to write a poem is like a bird who hasn't learned to use his wings."

"Hah! Kiku is a good man, but teaching was never his calling. Listen, kid, these are important times we're living in. History is in the making. Europe is in a state of chaos right now. The Great War didn't solve much—it just put a bandage over a bullet hole without taking out the bullet. Know what I mean?"

"No," Alfred murmurs with a frown.

"See? It's because they don't teach you this stuff in school," Gilbert insists, but when he sees that he isn't getting through to the boy, he shakes his head and blows smoke out of his mouth. "You're still too young… Some people lost _everything_ in the war. Even here, we're in a horrible depression right now. Since Black Tuesday—"

Alfred furrows and thinks back to where he's heard that term used before. He knows about what happened on Black Tuesday. The stock market crashed, and lots of people lost all of their money. He remembers the many children his age lined up in the streets, panhandling for spare coins.

"—nothing has been done to help people recover. Here it's not so bad, but in the cities and farther out west—God help those people. If you don't have a secure job, you're doomed to poverty," Gilbert continues. "And mark my words, it's only going to get worse from here on out."  
Alfred listens intently and tries to wrap his head around all of this. It's as though Gilbert is connecting the memories from his days in New York together and making them a little more coherent, but there are still parts missing.

"People like Arthur can afford to feed an extra mouth, but the rest of us, we're just trying to get by every day. Not all of us can be successful lawyers. I guess that's why he works so much though. He knows that if he saves up enough, he can ride out the shit—I mean garbage—economy."

It's rare for Gilbert to ramble on like this. Alfred can hear the fervor in his words, as though the man has been waiting to let off steam for a while.

"I'm sure the war is still fresh in his mind, especially after all what happened to his family."

Alfred tenses and takes a step closer to Gilbert, immensely curious. "What happened?"

"He didn't tell you? He lost all three of his brothers in battle. He's the youngest of four, and he just barely avoided conscription—the draft—because he wasn't of age when the fighting started. I think he turned eighteen in nineteen seventeen, but by then, the war was nearing its end and he wasn't needed. It definitely shook him up," Gilbert recounts, one hand rubbing against his stubbly chin in thought.

Arthur with brothers? Somehow, it's hard for Alfred to imagine.

"And if seeing three coffins being put into the ground wasn't enough, I heard his wife at the time came down with rheumatic fever—a horrible disease. It's still a problem on the coast today. They hadn't even been married for a year. I remember when he first moved into the town about ten years ago. I'd never seen such a nervous wreck in my life. He'd wanted to get as far away from Europe as possible, but who can blame him?"

He's going to be sick. He turns his head to the curb and tries to hold down his lunch, feeling every part of his body turn cold with an awful, churning sensation. It's not fair how people die without ever having done anything wrong. It doesn't make sense. It's all pointless pain, and he knows this because he's been on the receiving end of it. He thinks of Mattie, Papa, Mom, and Arthur's family, and the world goes topsy-turvy and off kilter. So many people, and so much pain.

Gilbert looks at him strangely and sighs. "Ah, damn it. I didn't mean to scare ya. Hey, how about I walk you home, huh?"

Tears well in Alfred's eyes and he lowers his head, avoiding Gilbert's gaze. He wants to be adult-like and show that he's strong enough to talk about these types of matters, but it's proving to be more overwhelming than he thought it would be.

"I'm sorry, squirt. You shouldn't be thinking about this stuff," Gilbert apologizes with a reassuring sincerity. He rubs Alfred's head soothingly and urges him forward with a strained smile. "This weather is damned awful. Let's get you home."

He follows Gilbert's lead and lags behind him all the way to the house, sobs dying down when he sees the familiar porch waiting for them. Gilbert sits him down in a wicker chair by the steps and pulls out another cigarette when he's done with the first one, anxious and rueful as he stares at the row of houses across the street.

"There's just one more thing I have to tell you, squirt. I've never seen Arthur happy until he started looking after you. I mean, he would force a laugh now and then, but you could tell it wasn't real. You can always tell the difference between real happiness and pretend happiness. He seems younger too—more full of life."

The redness around Alfred's eyes goes down, and he sniffles wetly. "I don't want him to be sad anymore."

"He's not. He's actually acting human again," Gilbert mutters with a crooked grin. "Who would've thought he still had a heart?"

They sit in silence on the porch for half an hour, and by then, Alfred has considerably calmed and regained some of the color in his face. He has the key to go inside, but he doesn't want to be alone, and he feels a little better in Gilbert's company. A few more minutes pass, and his fingers start to go numb from the cold. He makes a move to get up and go to the front door, but just then, he notices Arthur strolling his way over, briefcase in hand.

When he's a few yards from the house, Arthur notices the pair of them on the porch and tilts his head in confusion, and much like Alfred had done a little under an hour ago, he disregards the ice on the ground and slips, shoes making a squelching sound. He shoots a hand out to brace himself on a tree or fence, but there's nothing to help steady him, and he promptly collides with the concrete.

"Honestly, does anyone watch where they're going nowadays?" Gilbert growls, sprinting over to the scene with Alfred in tow. "Arthur? Are you alive?"

Arthur groans and manages to sit up, sore and embarrassed but very alive. "I didn't plan to go ice-skating today," he jokes dryly, wincing when Gilbert helps him stand. "What are you doing here?"

"I was talking to your little scamp. He almost fell on his face today too."

Alarmed, Arthur turns to Alfred and frowns. "You aren't hurt, are you?"

"No, I'm okay," Alfred assures him, relieved to see the man get up without much of a problem.

"I can't wait for this winter to be over," Arthur declares, brushing bits of ice off of his coat before carefully climbing the porch steps. He moves his hand to take his keys out of his pocket, but lets out a loud hiss in the process, eyes slamming shut.

Not sparing a second, Alfred rushes to his aid, fearing the worst. "Are you okay, Arthur?"

"I-I'm fine, my boy, but I think I'll have quite a bruise on my hand in the morning."

To add to the party of onlookers, Francis suddenly bursts out of his house and shouts, " _Mon Dieu_ , that was quite the fall, Arthur."

Flushing furiously, Arthur snarls, " _Bloody fantastic_ , did everyone in the neighborhood see me make a fool of myself?"

The commotion escalates, and Francis crosses the street to have a look at the damage himself and to further poke fun at Arthur's spill. "How clumsy of you. Oh, look, your hand is already starting to swell. That's not good. You should have it checked out."

"Bugger off, Francis. I didn't ask for your medical advice."

"I hate to agree with him, but he's right. You may have broken a bone," Gilbert adds, grimacing at the inflamed appendage. "I've only seen old men break a limb after falling," he snickers.

Arthur growls something profane under his breath and makes another attempt at unlocking the door. This time he is successful, but the pain on his face is clear as day. "I've had enough of both of you. Come along, Alfred. Let's leave these bumbling idiots."

He brings Alfred inside with him and closes the door behind them, beyond frustrated. Alfred can tell he's had a trying day, and the little scene that just happened outside probably only served to give him a more pronounced migraine.

Knowing what he knows about the man now, Alfred can't help but feel sorry for him, but he does his best not to show it. He doesn't want Arthur to be aware of what Gilbert told him, and it's probably better for both of them if he keeps the information to himself.

He watches Arthur go into the kitchen and set up the teakettle, unable to overlook the way his guardian cradles his injured hand close to his chest and swears under his breath. He sets his briefcase down on the table and opens it, fetching a few papers and a pen before shutting it again. He tries to write something on one of the documents, but his hand protests, and he drops the pen, contemplating what to do next.

Worriedly, Alfred murmurs, "Are you sure you're—?"

"Yes, Alfred. I'm fine," Arthur snaps, features taut.

He's not going to get him to admit he's hurt, and although Alfred would love to help, he's not sure what to do for this kind of injury.

All he can do is pretend he doesn't see the growing black and blue bruise on the man's right hand.

But that's all right because there's something else he's learned about small towns, and that's that you can always count on your fellow townsfolk to look out for you.

* * *

At nine o'clock that night, there's a set of knocks on the door, and Alfred eagerly goes to tend to the matter, Baron padding alongside him with a wagging tail. He turns the lock and swings the door open, bewildered albeit amused to see Francis, Gilbert, and Ivan all gathered outside on the porch.

"Good evening, Alfred!" Ivan cheerfully greets him, not nearly as scary looking as he seemed to be the first time Alfred met the man. "Do you mind if we come in? We need to have a word with Arthur."

Obligingly, Alfred steps aside and lets the men in. Baron sniffs each of them and seems to approve of their presence, even though he does take a second to bare his teeth at Francis for good measure.

Arthur arrives a minute later, and when he sees the trio in the foyer his cheeks turn red and he shouts, "No! I'm not putting up with any of this tonight. All of you, get out!"

Evidently expecting such a reaction, Ivan smirks and cocks his head. "Now, now, there's no need for such harsh words. Must we go through this every time you're worse for wear?"

"Yes," Arthur huffs but softens his tone. "You could've at least left the frog and the kraut behind."

"They insisted on joining me. I couldn't turn away such concerned friends."

"They aren't concerned. They just want a reason to mock me in the future. Little do they know that I'll wring their necks if they—"

"Not in front of the boy," Francis pouts, a sinister look in his eyes. "And we _do_ care."

Joking now aside, Ivan regards Arthur with a stern gaze. "It could be serious. You're not the only one who has slipped today. I've already seen two broken legs and an injured back in the past few hours. This isn't something that should be taken lightly."

Conceding the fight, Arthur nods sullenly and goes into the living room. He sits himself on the couch, and Ivan crouches beside him, gently holding the injured hand up and comparing it to the uninjured one.

It looks pretty bad to Alfred, but Ivan only nods his head and presses a thumb onto the area with the most swelling. In response, Arthur lets out a plaintive yelp, startling everyone in the room.

"I'm sorry. I have to see how bad it is," Ivan explains, narrowing his eyes. "I'm almost certain you've broken your wrist."

Alfred is the first to ask, "Is he going to be okay?"

Ivan smiles brightly and nods. "Of course. He's going to be perfectly all right. Now, Arthur, you have two options. The first is to get yourself to the hospital for an x-ray so we can know exactly where the break is."

"Absolutely _not_ ," Arthur grumbles, blanching.

"That's what I was afraid you'd say," Ivan sighs. "All right, then. The second option is that I set the bone and make my best guess as to where the break is."

Arthur considers this for a moment and glowers. "How good will your guess be?"

"There's a ninety percent chance I'll get it right."

"And if you don't?"

"The bone might mend at the wrong angle, but if it makes you feel any better, I'm confident there won't be a problem. It's a clean break."

"Okay, do it then."

Ivan nods again and stands. "I'll prepare the plaster then. Oh, a word of warning, it will be painful. I can give you an anesthetic if you'd like. Ether works rather—"

"No, anything but ether."

Ivan frowns and tries to persuade Arthur to reconsider with an unwavering glare, but Arthur holds his own quite well. "Well, there's nothing else I can give you."

Francis scoffs and steps in, one hand raised in the air. "Desperate times call for old home remedies, and I have the perfect painkiller."

Arthur covers his eyes with his healthy hand and says, "I know what you're going to say, so please don't say it. It's illegal."

"But this is a medical emergency. Surely that's an exception. You're a lawyer, if anything happens, you can come up with a decent argument. Besides, no one in this room is going to tell."

"You may have forgotten that Alfred is listening to every word we're saying, and if he goes to school and tells his classmates about this—"

"He won't."

Alfred sits next to Arthur on the couch and cowers when he realizes that everyone's eyes are on him. What isn't he supposed to say? Why is everyone acting so strange?

"Besides, I don't want to be in that kind of state of mind around him," Arthur goes on cryptically.

"Oh, but it's okay for him to see you in excruciating pain? I think he'd prefer to see you a little tipsy."

Being surrounded by the four men makes Alfred feel self-conscious, and he's suddenly very aware of how childish he is compared to everyone else in the room. The entire conversation eludes him.

"I have something strong enough in my cupboard at home," Francis admits, clearing his throat. "Obviously it won't be enough to completely numb the pain, but it'll be better than nothing."

Ivan, Gilbert, Francis, and Arthur all exchange looks of uncertainty, and they don't say anything for a long time. Finally, Arthur clicks his tongue and says, "Fine. I'll go along with it."

And with that, Francis leaves momentarily to get the necessary supplies from his house, and Gilbert and Ivan go into the kitchen to prepare the plaster. Soon, Alfred is left alone with Arthur, and when he sees the rollercoaster of emotions Arthur is going through, he leans against the man's shoulder and tries his best to console him.

"Maybe it'd be best if you went up to your room, Alfred. You might not want to watch," Arthur suggests.

"No, I'm going to stay in case you need me."

Arthur manages a tiny smile and collects Alfred into a careful hug, mindful of his wrist. "Okay, then. If you're sure…"

"I'm sure."

When Francis returns and the plaster is ready, Arthur lies flat on his back with a pillow under his head, already anticipating the worst. He vows he will never leave the house in below freezing temperatures again.

Francis passes him a small glass with a clear liquid inside and says, "Cheers."

Arthur downs it in one go and shudders. A few minutes later, he's given a refill and the process repeats itself. After the fourth time, Ivan finally positions Arthur's hand for easy access and gets to work.

"You're going to feel me slowly pulling on your wrist. It should be over in a minute or two," Ivan cautions as Gilbert stuffs a small towel between Arthur's teeth.

It's a long and terrible minute. At first, Arthur doesn't make a sound, but halfway through he lets out a strangled scream that's muffled by the towel. Baron, of course, becomes absolutely hysterical, barking and yowling and even growling at Ivan upon seeing his owner in such distress. Alfred, on the other hand, merely holds Arthur's good hand while Francis and Gilbert hold down his shoulders.

It's the longest minute of Alfred's life, but he wills himself not to cry upon seeing the man in such pain. He has to be brave. If he cries, Arthur will be even more upset.

"Okay, okay. You're doing well," Francis hushes Arthur, and then, just as quickly as it started, it's over.

Arthur groans, and Gilbert removes the towel from his mouth. A combination of gauze and plaster is applied to the wrist, and the plaster hardens, leaving a smooth cast to cover the area.

"Better?" Ivan asks, cleaning up. "Keep the cast dry and try to keep your hand elevated whenever you can. I'll take it off in a few weeks."

It's unclear whether or not Arthur hears these instructions because his eyes are glassy, and he starts to doze off against his will, fast asleep on the couch. Despite all of the madness, the living room is filled with a friendly and companionable air, and Alfred feels a mixture of safety and warmth wash over him. The four men have obviously been friends longer than Arthur cares to admit, and Alfred can sense the close bond between them. They have been through their share of troubles.

"Alfred? Are you all right?" Francis whispers. "I'll spend the night to keep an eye on you two, okay?"

Alfred nods his head gratefully. He doesn't trust himself to take care of Arthur by himself.

Before long, Ivan and Gilbert say their goodbyes and make their way out of the house, leaving a wave of silence in their wake. Baron has finally settled down and has curled up by Arthur's feet, refusing to leave his side even when Francis flourishes his hands to shoo him away.

"He has a broken bone. He's not dying!" Francis tries to explain to the dog to no avail. He pats the brute's head and smirks. "My goodness, you're a mother hen, aren't you?"

Baron lets loose a quiet growl and lays his head across Arthur's ankles, content with his spot. With the two of them perched on the couch together, there isn't much room left, but Alfred doesn't want to leave his guardian while he's in this kind of state either, and so, he squeezes himself into the strip of space still left in front of Arthur's sleeping figure and presses himself against the man's chest, a bit more assured that he will be all right.

Francis purses his lips at the sight of the three of them together, but doesn't protest. Instead, he turns out the lamp on the nearby table and situates himself in the armchair across from them, so that if there's a problem during the night, he'll be able to hear it.

It's the very first time Alfred feels like he's exactly where he needs to be.


	5. Chapter 5

"Ahh, good morning, _mon petit_. Did you sleep well?"

Alfred blinks the sleepiness out of his eyes and scrunches up his face at the harsh sunlight coming through the window. His neck hurts a little from being on the lumpy couch all night, and when he tries to get up, he notices an arm wrapped around his midsection, firm and protective. Arthur is still asleep, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths, but when Alfred tries to wiggle out of his hold, the man grumbles a soft moan of complaint and tugs him back.

Francis, who is towering over them, offers Alfred a grin and gently shakes Arthur's shoulder. "Come now, you lazy man. You've slept long enough."

Arthur groans loudly and rolls onto his back, finally releasing Alfred. He murmurs something incoherent about losing a letter, but then comes to his senses and begrudgingly opens his eyes.

"There we go. I made tea and thought you might like some. It will help nurse your hangover," Francis chuckles before pointing to a steaming mug on the coffee table.

"What's a hangover?" Alfred asks, shifting his gaze between the two men.

"It's when—"

Arthur scowls and reaches up with his uninjured hand to smack Francis in the ribs. "Don't you _dare_."

"—a person has such an exciting night that they get a headache the next morning," Francis explains masterfully.

"Oh. So if I stay up late will I get a hangover?"

Arthur makes a funny noise in his throat and Francis laughs, which only serves to make Alfred feel twice as confused.

"Let's hope not," Francis says. "It's not exactly a good thing."

Arthur steps in and rests a comforting hand on Alfred's head. "It's nothing you have to worry about, poppet."

"Yes, enough talk. I'm going to make a lovely breakfast for us, if there's anything that can be salvaged from your kitchen, Arthur. We both know how putrid your cooking can be."

"Excuse me?"

"It's a miracle this poor boy has survived this long! He's paper thin!" Francis frets, pinching one of Alfred's cheeks. "Don't worry, Alfred, your Uncle Francis is going to feed you."

At the word "feed", Baron's ears perk up, and he reminds everyone he's still in the room by standing up and unceremoniously flopping onto Arthur's stomach to confirm whether or not his owner is feeling better. He nuzzles his cold nose against the man's ear and gives the entire left side of his face a large lick.

Arthur grimaces but gives the dog an affectionate pat on the head nonetheless. "Yes, yes, everything's okay. You can have some breakfast too, you numpty."

Not needing any prompting, Francis commandeers the kitchen at once, brimming with concentration. Freshly baked croissants with butter and jam are placed on the table first, followed by sliced fruits and yogurt. The smell itself is incredible, and Alfred wolfs down everything with uncontainable vigor. It's clear Francis is an expert in cuisine, and although Alfred has never necessarily disliked Arthur's cooking before, Francis's breakfast seems to melt in his mouth with how light and flavorful it is, something Arthur has never been able to achieve in any of his cooking.

However, Alfred does have some self-restraint, and so, he makes sure not to look too ecstatic over the excellent food in fear of hurting Arthur's feelings. It's probably best to appear nonchalant.

Arthur eats quickly because he claims to have a lot of work to do, and scarcely before ten minutes have passed, he is in his office, sitting by his typewriter and trying to type with only one hand at his disposal.

"Young boys should not have to spend their weekends inside," Francis laments when he sees that Alfred has been left to his own devices yet again. "Perhaps we can convince Arthur to let you go outside, hmm? Maybe you can play in the yard."

Alfred shakes his head, already imagining how such a conversation would unfold. "He's going to say no because it's too cold today."

"Well, he can't keep you locked up like this! It's enough to drive anyone insane."

Before Alfred can get out another word of protest, Francis storms over to Arthur's office and bangs on the heavy door with his fist, demanding to be invited in.

There's an angry growl on the other side, but Arthur pulls the door open and glares at Francis, waiting for an explanation. "May I help you?"

"Yes, you may," Francis jeers, putting a hand on his hip. "You took in this child, and now you can't even spare a single weekend for him? There are things in this life that are far more important than work, Arthur. One day he will be a grown man. Do you want him to look back at his childhood as a time of isolation? He's ten years old! He needs a father. Act like one!"

Thoroughly stunned, Arthur stares at Francis for a long time, blank-eyed and pale. A muscle twitches in his jaw, and then he says, "It's not as simple as you think."

"Why did you take him in if you can't care for him?"

"I _can_ care for him. I've tried to give him everything—"

"Yes, you gave him a nice house to live in and warm meals, but you haven't given him the most important thing of all."

Arthur furrows his brows. "And what's that?"

"Your _love_ ," Francis sighs, exasperated. "He spent the entire night sitting by your side, and this is how you repay him?"

"That's not—"

A somber frown crosses Francis's face as he murmurs, "Believe it or not, it's okay to _feel_ something other than frustration and grief. I know you're afraid, but you're not going to lose him. He needs you."

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and makes a noise of agreement. He pushes past Francis and finds Alfred in the hallway, a sheepish smile on his lips. "Would you like to go to the cinema this afternoon, my boy?"

"The place with the moving pictures?"

"Precisely."

"Yes! I've never been before, but I used to hear about some of the shows from my friends on the train," Alfred explains, eyes brightening with enthusiasm. "Can Francis come with us?"

Arthur seems ready to reject the request, but then he notices the hopeful twinkle in Alfred's eyes and slowly reconsiders.

"Give him a pout, Alfred. It will help our cause," Francis suggests with a snicker.

Sure enough, as soon as Alfred juts out his bottom lip a little, Arthur's resolve begins to crack.

"Francis is a busy man, lad. I'm sure he has to repaint his attic or apply more mousse into his hair."

Francis rolls his eyes and gives Arthur a sickly sweet grin. "I have all of the time in the _world_ for you."

"Will you at least behave yourself?"

"But of course!"

"Fine, then. You can join us if you wish."

A bubbly giggle escapes Alfred, and he wraps his arms around Arthur's stomach, thrilled at the sudden change in plans. "Yay! Thank-you!"

It's bound to be a good day.

* * *

The title of the movie they see is _The Broadway Melody,_ featuring the lovely Anita Page, who fits the definition of a Hollywood girl perfectly. It's a musical/romance film, and although a lot of the banter and dramatic conversations elude Alfred, he enjoys himself nonetheless.

The theater is packed and buzzing with the chatter of people ranging from young to old. Some of the mothers have left their little children in the care of the designated play area in another room, while the men mingle and smoke cigarettes, leaving the theater a tad oppressive and clammy.

Essentially, the film follows a traditional love-triangle with the occasional musical number thrown into the mix. There are a few kissing scenes, and they make Alfred feel a bit squeamish, but the songs are fun, and the images are unlike anything he's ever seen before.

It's over within two hours, and when they finally exit the theater, Alfred has to squint against the sunlight of the day before his eyes adjust. After sitting in front of the big screen projection for so long, the outside world seems mal-proportioned and small.

"Did you have a good time?" Arthur asks him, tightening the scarf around his neck. "A bit too flashy for my tastes, I'd say, but bearable."

Alfred tilts his head to one side and shrugs. "I liked it."

"It was not as good as some French films, but I can see the appeal," Francis chimes, pulling on his leather gloves.

"You can't critique the film; you fell asleep halfway through," Arthur reminds. "On my shoulder, nonetheless."

"Ah, but that's what friends are for, _non_? Alfred's shoulder is too small to sleep on."

They all share a good laugh, and then it's time to go home. It's another cold day, and with night approaching, the winter chill intensifies.

"Don't fall and break your other arm, Arthur," Francis forewarns, the hint of a tease in his voice. "How will you write your legal briefs then?"

"Oh, shut up."

The bickering between the two men makes Alfred happy in a way he can't quite describe. He knows neither of them really harbor hard feelings toward each other, and perhaps that's why their friendship is so funny in the first place. He thinks back to _The Broadway Melody_ and how relationships can be both a blessing and a curse, and a curious thought comes upon him.

"Arthur? Can I ask you a question?"

Arthur pauses his sparring with Francis for a moment and lets a careful smile flutter across his face. "Of course you can."

"You used to be in love, right?" Alfred wonders, raising his head up to meet his caretaker's gaze.

Arthur bites the inside of his cheek and exchanges a glance with Francis before he says, "Erm—yes, yes, I was, but that was a long time ago. Why do you ask?"

"I just—" Alfred frowns. To be honest, he's not really sure why he wants to know. "What's being in love like?"

Arthur scrunches up his face slightly, thinking. From beside him, Francis shoots him an expectant look.

"Ahh, I suppose… Being in love is when you're willing to put someone else's needs ahead of your own. You accept that person in spite of any flaws, and you stay beside them even when times are hard. When you're in love, you never want to return home because you find a home in them. Is that clear?"

Francis huffs and crosses his arms. "What a terrible explanation!"

Arthur grows red and opens his mouth to defend himself, but Alfred beats him to it.

"No, it's okay. I think I get it now," he reassures, adding a bounce to his step. "Thanks!"

Arthur nods and bows his head in relief, shoulders hunched.

* * *

"You have to take this. It isn't a request."

"It's gross!" Alfred wails, casting his arms out in front of him to keep the dreaded silver spoon in Arthur's hand at bay.

"It's the only thing that will help you."

"I'd rather die!"

"Don't say that. You don't mean it."

"Yes, I do!"

Arthur mutters angrily under his breath and tries to calm his temper, wanting to take a more patient approach but failing. They've been at it for over thirty minutes, and he is rapidly running out of the energy needed to keep this up.

Alfred had woken up in the middle of the night complaining about another lung spasm, and so, Arthur had taken the liberty of finding the ephedrine he kept in stock in the bathroom, only to return to a protesting and absolutely incorrigible Alfred who refused to take it.

Hence, they are now poised in Alfred's bedroom, each of them as stubborn as the other. The battle would have ended minutes ago if Arthur had the availability of two working hands, but his debilitated arm is currently in a sling, leaving him in no condition for a tussle with the boy.

"Alfred, for the _last_ time, take the medicine."

"No!"

"In that case, I'm going to tell Ivan you disobeyed his instructions."

The wheezing in Alfred's lungs is getting worse, and soon enough, he grows too miserable and sickly to continue pushing himself. Arthur seizes the chance to force the medicine down him, and though Alfred cries and howls as though Arthur has chopped off his leg, he is all right again within the hour.

They both go back to sleep afterward, but Arthur calls Ivan in the morning anyway, and he stops by for a visit just to make sure there's nothing to worry about.

Alfred sulks and glowers as Ivan puts a stethoscope on his back, but the exam is over fairly quickly, and Alfred is allowed to put his shirt on again.

"Everything's fine for now. I'm afraid this is going to be a regular occurrence," Ivan announces, packing up his things.

Arthur doesn't seem satisfied with the verdict. "Isn't there anything else we can do?"

"Well, you could move to the coast where the air is better, but even that doesn't guarantee he'll feel better."

"I don't want to move!" Alfred chirps, making sure he isn't left out of the discussion.

Arthur ignores him. "But there's a chance it'll cure him?"

"No, it won't cure him, but he'll experience fewer symptoms."

"I see… Okay, it's something we'll consider. Thank you again for your time."

Once Ivan is out the door, Alfred sweeps his way over to Arthur with a deep frown and asks, "Are we moving?"

"I don't know yet," Arthur sighs, carding a hand through his own hair.

"But I don't want to move! I'll have to leave my friends, and I like everyone in the town!"

"We won't make any rash decisions now, all right?"

It's enough of a reassurance for the meantime. By the next day, they don't even mention the subject anymore, and Alfred hopes this is a sign Arthur has given up on the idea.

A new development takes place the following week, but it has nothing to do with potentially moving. Instead, Alfred is taken to get fitted for a pair of frames because a trip to the ophthalmologist proves he's as near-sighted as a bat in the daytime. At first, wearing his new glasses is a little annoying because they feel awkward on his nose and always seem to get in the way of things, but before long, he barely notices he has them on anymore.

He jokes he's a whole new person now that he has glasses—definitely smarter and more mature. He even fantasizes they will give him superpowers like night-vision and the ability to see invisible objects. For three days, he prances around the house and declares he "will save the world!"

Twice, he misplaces his glasses and is left to wander around blindly. Thankfully, Arthur finds them on top of the dresser in his bedroom, but before he gives them back to Alfred, he attaches an elastic band to the frames so that he isn't as tempted to take them off or let them fall off of his face.

"The only time you should be taking these glasses off is when you're in the bath or going to sleep," Arthur chides him, and it's only the start of an arduous lecture. Of course, it goes in one ear and out the other because by the time Arthur finishes speaking, Alfred is back to conjuring fantastical tales. This time he's on a scavenger hunt in the heart of the Amazon rainforest, using his handy-dandy glasses as binoculars to spot exotic animals.

Everything looks different behind glass, or maybe it just seems that way. The windowsill in his bedroom looks smaller, and Francis's house across the street appears to be farther away. He has never seen the world through a new lens before. It's a puzzling discovery.

"Would the hero like to have his dinner now?"

Alfred spins around, and the rainforest disappears from his mind when he sees Arthur standing in the doorway of his room. "Yes, please."

"Then come and help me set the table."

He nods and parades after the man, eager to be of assistance, especially since Arthur clearly needs the extra hand. If he wants to save the universe, he supposes he should start with small acts of heroism around the house first. Today's meal consists of veal, potatoes, and ever-so-slightly charred vegetables.

They both sit down and begin to eat, but just as Arthur picks up his knife to slice the meat, he is made very aware of how impossible it is for him to hold both a knife and a fork at the same time due to his injured hand, and he is left to haphazardly hack away at the veal. His left hand is uncoordinated at best, and he nearly cuts his finger as a result. He drops the knife, curses, and apologizes profusely when he realizes Alfred has overheard the foul words.

By the time he picks up the knife again for a second try, Alfred gets up and stops him before he can hurt himself.

"I can do it," Alfred tells him kindly. However, getting the man to accept help isn't so simple.

Arthur waves a hand at him dismissively and wastes no time in portraying how irritated he is. "That's all right. I can manage."

"No, you can't."

"I beg your pardon?"

Alfred huffs and takes the silverware away. "Let me do it! You can trust me."

"I don't recall asking for—"

"Don't worry," Alfred beseeches, already cutting the meat into pieces. For a moment, he feels ten years older, and it's as though the hands holding the fork and knife are no longer his own; they are from a future he has yet to know.

* * *

Slowly but surely, the snow makes way for blooming flowers, and the town rises out of its dreary hibernation once and for all. The sun shines a little brighter, and the school children linger in the streets, playing and shouting delightfully between the leafless trees. For them, nothing else seems to matter. The hardships of the world have been stowed in the closet for the day.

Or so Alfred thinks until he takes another walk with Arthur to _Beilschmidt Sweets_. They are greeted by Ludwig when they enter the familiar, quaint shop, and Arthur buys himself a pack of cigarettes and a roll of Life-Savers, placing a dollar on the counter.

"You're the first customer I've seen today," Ludwig sighs, hunched over with weariness. "Business has been slower than usual."

Arthur makes a low noise of sympathy. "I suppose it's not really surprising, given the circumstances. Where's Gilbert?"

"I sent him home early. At least one of us can enjoy this nice day… Roderich lost his job last week, did I tell you?"

"No, you didn't. Roderich's the cousin in Chicago?"

"That's the one," Ludwig confirms, counting up Arthur's change. "I would offer him a place to stay here, but there isn't any work to be found in the suburbs. How's the arm?"

"In one piece," Arthur says with a dry laugh, lighting up one of the cigarettes. "It's a relief to have that damned cast off."

Ludwig nods and hands Arthur some coins, but Arthur pushes them back and shakes his head.

"Keep it, please," he says before taking another drag of his cigarette. "These are trying times."

Even though he doesn't recognize it right away, Alfred will one day take pride in Arthur's willingness to be charitable.

Ludwig hesitates for a moment, but then accepts the money with another sigh. "Thank you… Oh, and hello, Alfred! How are you doing today?"

Alfred smiles widely and shrugs his shoulders. "I'm okay!"

"You're doing well in school?"

"Uh-huh."

"Good, that's what I like to hear. Educated men will always be able to support their families," Ludwig explains, wiping down the counter with a wet rag. "We need more clever boys like you."

Alfred thanks the man and grabs a Life-Saver when Arthur offers him one. He has grown to really like the Beilschmidt brothers, even though they can sometimes be unnerving. They're interesting people, and Alfred always finds himself fascinated by what they have to say.

"All right, then. We'll be on our way. Take care, Ludwig," Arthur mutters before they head home for the day. The sun is beginning to set, and the sky bleeds pink and orange and a mural of other colors as they cross the street. The mild air on their skin feels so refreshing that neither of them want to go inside when they reach the steps of the porch.

Arthur unlocks the door and swings it open, waiting for an excited greeting from Baron but getting none. Confused, he steps inside and calls for the dog from the foyer. "Baron! Come and sit in the garden for a while."

A tad worried, Alfred follows Arthur into the house, and they look for Baron together, only to find him lying in his plump bed stationed in the corner. He's quite lethargic, and he doesn't even bother to lift his head when they approach him. He's curled up into a ball of fur with his nose tucked into the fabric of the pet-bed.

Arthur crouches down and rubs Baron's head softly, unable to hide the concern on his face. "Hey, there… What's wrong? Don't tell me you tried to eat one of my shoes again," he jokes, but the words are flat. "Oh, Baron…"

Alfred bites his bottom lip and stands back, scared that if he gets too close, he'll somehow make things worse. "Is he sick?"

"It would seem so," Arthur murmurs, voice thick with emotion. "I-I'll get him a blanket, and we'll let him rest for the night. Maybe he'll be all right in the morning. If not, he'll have to go to the vet."

Alfred nods, and while Arthur gets up and staggers toward the closet, he sits down on the floor beside Baron and gives him a careful hug along with a kiss atop his nose. "Feel better soon, okay?"

The dog whines miserably, and Arthur tucks a quilt around him, hands shaking. "There… That'll keep him comfortable."

When there's nothing else they can do for him, they have dinner and get ready for bed, but instead of going up to his room, Arthur decides he'll sleep on the couch to stay by the mutt. A heavy feeling of dread washes over Alfred and leaves his hands and toes cold because they both know what is happening here, but he doesn't say anything. He goes up to his own bed, understanding that Arthur probably wants to be left alone in his watch.

He prays the dog will recover, but this is something not even a hero can fix.


	6. Chapter 6

Just after dawn, a hand shakes Alfred awake, and the boy sits up ungracefully, bedhead worse than usual and dry-mouthed. Arthur is leaning over him, eyes the size of saucers as he whispers urgently, "I'm sorry for waking you, lad, but we need to get you dressed and over to Francis' house."

Alfred runs his tongue around his mouth a few times, so it doesn't feel like sandpaper anymore, and says, "What? Why?"

"Because I need to run an errand, and I won't be back until later in the day. So, hurry along and get your things. Francis will serve you breakfast and tea."

Arthur's voice is unnaturally low and heavy, as though he can't bear the weight of his own words. He seems somewhat frantic, and he makes an effort to conceal his worries, but Alfred knows him well enough by now to know something is wrong.

"Is it because of Baron?" he asks.

"Yes, my boy," Arthur replies, being honest.

"Is he going to be okay?"

"Let's hope so."

He's about to beg Arthur to take him along, but judging by the look in the man's eyes, he isn't going to be able to convince him, and thus, he gets up and does as he is told instead.

There's no school today, so he grabs some comfortable clothes to play and lounge around in. He combs his hair as best he can, but it doesn't do much to tame the nest of blond strands. He drinks some water, brushes his teeth, grabs a few books in case he gets bored later, and then decides to see Baron for himself before he goes.

The mutt is lying on his stomach, paws tucked beneath his chest and eyes as glassy and pained as they had been last night, if not more so. Alfred scratches behind his ears, hugs him around the neck with a lengthy cuddle, and murmurs, "Get better soon. I'll save you some scones for when you get back, okay?"

"No, you will not," Arthur interrupts, not sounding nearly as gruff as he should.

When Alfred finds that there isn't much left to be said, he watches Arthur heft Baron up into his arms and carry him out to the car. The dog is put in the passenger's seat with a blanket wrapped around his middle, and when he's comfortable and doesn't seem like he's going to move any time soon, Alfred and Arthur cross the street to get to Francis' house.

As blithe as always, Francis steps outside and greets them both with a lustrous grin, trying to make light of the situation. "Breakfast is on the table, Alfred. Make yourself at home."

He motions for Alfred to go inside, and so he does, but he lingers in the foyer, unfamiliar with the layout of the rooms. From behind, he hears Francis softly tell Arthur, "Take as much time as you need."

"Thank you again."

"Oh, please, you know it's never a bother… I'm sorry… Truly."

"I knew this day was inevitable. Maybe it's for the best. He's been sickly for nearly a year now."

"Nevertheless, it's a difficult decision," Francis sympathizes, leaning against the doorframe.

Arthur's voice goes all strange again and he says, "It's been fourteen years."

"Has it? Where does the time go? Maybe you should have Gilbert go with you?"

"No, no… It's fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite… I'm on my way, then. Don't give Alfred too many sweets, and he's not allowed to climb any trees, no matter what he tells you."

"We'll be fine."

And then, Francis closes the door and turns around to look at Alfred. "I hope you're hungry. One would think all of that English food—well, it's not really considered _food_ —would fatten you up, but you're still as slim as a plank of wood! Uncle Francis will have to step in, I suppose. There are some baguettes with jam waiting, and the tea is almost ready. You're welcome to have seconds."

Stomach already growling, Alfred doesn't waste any time getting to the table, and within minutes, there's strawberry jam smeared all over his chin and the corners of his mouth. Once he's so full he can barely move, he takes the chance to really look at the kitchen with fresh eyes and a clear mind.

Describing the place as elegant would be an understatement. Francis seems to take great pride in maintaining his house because every tile, portrait, countertop, and square of wallpaper is in perfect harmony with the other. He has an eye for patterns and design, and Alfred can't help but think the man is better suited for interior design rather than hairdressing. He's wasting his talents.

From across the kitchen table, Francis squeezes some lemon juice into his tea and lets out a long, solemn sigh. "The world keeps changing, dear Alfred. I don't know if I can keep up."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll see someday. Oh, how I wish I could be a boy of your age again—just for one day."

"Wanna trade?"

"No, I could never take your youth from you. That'd be a travesty… Tell me something… How are you liking the town?"

Alfred shrugs his shoulders and finishes the last crumbs of his baguette. "Everyone is really nice, and I like living with Arthur. He's not like my old papa, but he reads to me at night, and he's always teaching me a lot of stuff that my old papa never knew."

Francis nods. "You're not feeling a little homesick for New York?"

"Maybe a little," Alfred admits, wiping his face with a napkin. "Mama, Papa, and Mattie aren't there anymore though, so I don't think I'd want to live there again."

"I see…"

"Yeah… I wanna go back and see them someday."

"Do you know where they are buried?"

"Only Papa, but Mama and Mattie are probably where he is."

Francis sits up and puts his elbows on the table. "Probably?"

"Well, I never saw Mama and Mattie after they were taken to the hospital. Some police officers came over later and said I had to go to the children's home, and that's it."

" _Mon dieu_. How terrible."

Francis becomes serious and stares at Alfred for a long time, thinking and contemplating, and unsure of whether or not he should share what's on his mind. "Alfred, were you ever told exactly what became of them?"

Alfred draws his brows down and tries to remember. "No."

"If the police came, then that means you no longer had a legal guardian, but your brother is another matter. Your brother could very well have recovered and been brought to a children's home as well. We would have to look up the records."

Alfred feels a twist in his abdomen and glowers. He doesn't want to get his hopes up. Everyone is gone. They must be, Matthew included.

"I'll tell Arthur to look into it at a later date. He's the only one with a mind for these kinds of legal matters."

Could it really be true? Could Matthew be alive?

"In the meantime, how about we play some football in the yard while we wait for Arthur's return?"

Alfred hastily learns that his idea of football greatly differs from Francis', but it doesn't matter all too much because they still manage to run around and kill time anyway. He wonders if it's okay to be playing when Baron is probably stuck in some horrible animal clinic, but Francis says Arthur will take care of everything, and that the best thing they can do right now is keep their spirits up.

"Alfred, you have to understand that Baron is an old dog. He—"

"I know what's happening to him," Alfred mutters, feeling a sting in his eyes. "I _know_. I'm just hoping there'll be some way… Even though Arthur always complains about him, I know he cares about him a lot. Kinda like he complains about you. I don't want to see him sad. I'll be sad too, but maybe the vet can still—"

"I don't think that's going to happen, _mon lapin_. Arthur planned to… No, I'll let him tell you. It'll be better that way."

"Planned to what? Tell me!" Alfred insists as some tears rolls down his nose. "Tell me, please."

Francis bites his lip and says, "He's putting him to rest… To sleep."

Alfred sits down in the grass and puts his face in his hands, lightheaded and filled with a type of fury he's never felt before. "So there's no medicine they can give him, or—?"

"I'm so sorry, _mon chou_."

Francis reaches out a hand to embrace him, but Alfred runs off toward the nearest tree and climbs onto one of the branches, wanting to be left alone to sulk.

"He's not even going to try to make him better?" he squeaks once he's high enough.

"There's nothing he can do, Alfred."

"If he's gonna die, we have to at least try to save him! Do something!"

"There's nothing to be done."

"It's not fair!" Alfred shouts, arms shaking. "He's just a dog! He didn't do anything wrong!"

Francis frowns and rubs his forehead, trying to think of something to say, but he's not a papa either and people who aren't papas don't know how to say the things they should.

"You're not supposed to be in the trees, Alfred. Come down from there, and we can talk."

"No! I'm going to stay here until I die!"

"Don't say things like that! Oh, what have I done? Arthur is going to be furious."

"Baron was my friend!"

"I know he was… Please, come down!"

"No!"

Francis groans and goes back into the house, surrendering for now.

* * *

He sees Arthur's car pull up in the driveway, the engine making a racket and indicating a need for repairs, which is just another thing the man will have to worry about in the coming days. Alfred watches him park from his perch in the top of the tree, cheeks salty with tears and wanting nothing more than to yell at his guardian for letting go of Baron so easily—for not fighting tooth and nail for his recovery.

Arthur bows his head and gets out of the car, the blood drained from his face. The expression of emptiness on his features is almost inhuman, and Alfred pushes himself closer to the trunk of the tree, frightened and angry and not quite sure what to feel anymore.

The man runs a hand through his hair and stiffly makes his way toward Francis' house. For a while, everything is still and calm, but within the course of a single minute, Arthur barrels his way out the back door and into the yard, beside himself. His green eyes are enveloped in red, and Alfred has never seen him look so austere.

He stands at the bottom of the tree, rubs a hand across his haggard face and orders, "Come here, Alfred."

Feeling a burst of courage, Alfred shakes his head and holds back more tears. "No."

Arthur sucks in a sharp breath and lowers his gaze to his shoes, suddenly somber. "I'm not going to say it again."

"I'm never coming down."

Arthur purses his lips, thinks for a moment, and asks in a serious tone of voice, "Shall I deliver your dinners to the tree then?"

Not sure if the man is messing with him or not, Alfred crosses his arms and nods.

"All right. Well, that's sorted, at least," Arthur huffs before swiveling around on his heel and sauntering away.

He makes it through half of the yard before Alfred's heart falls into his gut, and he screams, " _Wait_!"

Arthur comes to an abrupt halt but doesn't turn around, shoulders drawn back tightly. "Yes?"

"You're going to _leave_ me here?"

"Isn't that what you wanted?"

Alfred swipes a hand under his leaking eyes and bites his tongue, shivering with sobs. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to find a new family, and things were going to be all right again. He wasn't supposed to end up sad and crying. He wasn't supposed to lose another life. He wasn't supposed to feel his chest split in two, and he wasn't supposed to look at his new parent and see him look so hopeless—so solitary.

"Why couldn't you save Baron?"

Arthur lifts his arms up and drops them, emphasizing how powerless he is. A clumsy tear runs down to his chin, and he says through quivering lips, "I-I don't know, Alfred. I wish I knew, but I don't. The only thing I could do is let him go with dignity. Everyone has to pass away eventually. That's all there is…"

Alfred swallows painfully and sniffles as Arthur approaches the tree again and climbs up. He plops himself next to Alfred and releases an exhausted sigh before wrapping an arm around the boy and resting his chin on his shoulder.

"He was a good dog. An evolutionary disaster, but good nonetheless," Arthur croaks, holding Alfred snugly against his chest. "Will you come home, now? I can't stand to stay on Francis' property any longer."

Alfred gives a conceding murmur of agreement, and they scale their way down the tree at last, both feeling a little lighter.

"You're an absolute mess," Arthur gripes after a moment, using a thumb to clean up Alfred's tears.

" _You're_ a mess," Alfred corrects him, reaching a hand up to pat at Arthur's wet eyes as well.

He doesn't know why, but for some reason, doing that brings a new batch of tears to the man's face.

* * *

 _July 3, 1932_

"Hey, Gilbert, do you know how to fire a gun?"

Gilbert lays his head beside the register of the candy shop and stares longingly outside of the display window. "Look there, squirt. Isn't she a beauty?"

Alfred rolls his head to the right, sees Ms. Hedervary walking down the street, and turns back to Gilbert with an expectant look. "I _said_ , do you know how to fire a gun?"

"The older she gets, the more beautiful she becomes; it means she's got a pure soul. It's hard to find women like that nowadays," Gilbert continues, lustful eyes scanning Ms. Hedervary up and down.

"Why don't you talk to her?"

" _Talk to her_? Hah! That shows how you know nothing about romance, kid. You're still too young."

Alfred flushes and wrinkles his nose. "I'm old enough. Arthur lets me walk to town alone now, and I'm even starting to grow a beard!"

"Where? I don't see anything," Gilbert mocks before pinching one of Alfred's cheeks. "You've got a baby face."

"Do not!"

"Sure you do."

"I've got three hairs right _here_ ," Alfred says, pointing to the spot. "Anyway, are you coming to my birthday party?"

"When's that again?"

"Tomorrow."

"Oh, yeah. Almost forgot. Ludwig wrapped your present already."

"Is it a gun?"

"Nope."

Alfred frowns and slouches in his seat by the counter. "Darn."

"Why are you suddenly so dead-set on getting a gun?"

"Cause I'm turning thirteen now, and most of the boys at school shoot guns with their dads."

Gilbert lights himself a trusty cigarette and cracks open a bottle of beer. "Yeah, well, good luck convincing Arthur to get you one. Besides, he's probably right, there's no reason boys should be learning how to fire bullets. That's how wars are perpetuated."

"Mr. Honda said the Great War was the 'war to end all wars'."

"Yeah, well, Kiku doesn't know what he's talking about. There's been war since the formation of the earliest civilizations, and there will _always_ be war."

"Why?"

"That's just the way of the world. Humans can't coexist together," Gilbert hisses, downing his beer and getting some foam stuck on his upper lip. "Anybody who doesn't see the rise of these right-wing nutcases in the _Reichstag_ are either blind or stupid. These damned Nazis are a disgrace to the rest of the German people, you know, but some still have bitter sentiments from 1914, and they let these kinds of idiots into the national parliament because of it. Heed my words, the Nazi Party is going to become the majority party soon, and that's going to be a dark day for Germans."

Just then, Ludwig comes out of the storeroom and clicks his tongue. "Don't confuse the boy with politics. And why are you _drinking_ out in the open like that? Do you want to get us in legal trouble?"

"Ah, no one enforces that crap anyway, and Alfred should know the truth! He needs to be informed. Instead of wanting a gun, he should be wanting a newspaper. Let him pick up a copy of _Mein Kampf_ while he's at it. Let him see what kind of chaos society is devolving into!"

"Oh, you and your conspiracy theories."

"It's not a conspiracy theory! There's going to be another war, and Adolf Hitler is going to be at the front of it."

"He doesn't even have any administrative power, Gilbert."

"He will soon! He's going to run for chancellor!"

"He won't get the position. Alfred, don't listen to a word he says. He gets too worked up about politics. Ivan says it's bad for his health," Ludwig explains before giving the boy a free chocolate bar. "Eat and don't pay him any mind."

Gilbert smacks a hand against the counter and says, "My health is fine."

"Your blood pressure is high."

"No, I just have white coat syndrome, you _dummkopf_."

"Deny it all you want, but it's not going to change anything."

"Deny the impending war all you want, but that's not going to change anything either!" Gilbert exclaims, getting up and storming off, leaving his beer unfinished. "And prohibition is complete horse crap!"

When it's quiet again, Ludwig mutters, "See what I have to put up with? Oh, and don't even try explaining to him that he needs to take medication. Ivan and I have already lost our voices twice."

* * *

 _July 4, 1932_

He doesn't get a gun for his birthday. Unsurprisingly, the box with a big, blue bow and his name on it contains a new suit, and even though he feels a little disappointed, he's grateful for the gift nonetheless. He tries it on in front of Arthur, and the man is utterly ecstatic, going on and on about how Alfred is finally becoming a young man and—my goodness—when did he get two inches taller? He already reaches Arthur's shoulder, and they're both pretty sure he's going to sprout up even more within the coming years.

"Make a wish, love."

Alfred thinks long and hard about his wish, and although he's still dying to get a gun, something else comes to the forefront of his mind—something Arthur has been researching for months now.

He wishes to see Mattie again.

Apparently, the hospital records have been lost somewhere in a myriad of files because Arthur has written to over twelve hospitals within the New York area, and none of them have records of what may have happened to Matthew or his mother. And even though Alfred knows he shouldn't be enthusiastic, he can't help but imagine what Matthew might look like now—probably just like him but a little scrawnier and with curlier hair.

Arthur promises he will keep searching, and Alfred believes him. The man hasn't let him down yet, and if his brother is out there somewhere, he's certain Arthur will be able to find him eventually.

He blows out his candles and Gilbert, Ludwig, Francis, Ivan, Toris, and Arthur all clap gleefully and proudly. He feels incredibly special and privileged to be on the receiving end of their affection.

"Can I slice the cake?"

"Okay," Arthur agrees, handing him a knife. "Just be very careful not to cut yourself."

Alfred serves himself a large piece of chocolate cake with extra frosting on top (courtesy of the Beilschmidt brothers) and grins. "Ivan can sew my finger back on if anything happens."

"Very funny," Arthur grumbles, changing his mind and taking the knife back from Alfred in order to serve everyone else. "I remember what happened the last time I trusted you with the cheese grater."

"That was _one_ time."

"Yes, and the last time."

Once everyone has a plate full of cake, a round of playful banter starts up, and Francis says, "So, Arthur, how does it feel to officially be the parent of a teenager?"

Arthur closes his eyes and groans. "Please don't remind me. You should see the state of his room."

"Hey, it's not _that_ bad!" Alfred protests, mouth practically overflowing with cake.

"No, not at all. Tomorrow, you'll be cleaning it until it's spotless and _sparkling_ with cleanliness."

"It only gets worse," Ivan chimes in, ruffling Toris' hair, causing the boy to whine with discontent and embarrassment.

Alfred smacks his lips and cocks his head to the side. "You always act like I'm the worst kid in the world."

"I do not. I was only joking," Arthur assures, winking at the boy before shaking his shoulder fondly. "You're just too exuberant for your own good sometimes… It looks like you're going to need a second piece of cake."

Alfred glances down at his plate and chuckles. "I guess I will."

He doesn't stop smiling for the rest of the night.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:** Thanks for the feedback, everyone! Here's another chapter for being so awesome. Happy reading!

* * *

 _August 1932_

" _More_ school? I thought I was done after this year!"

"You're done with primary school. Next is secondary school."

Alfred erupts into an abject moan and jams his hands into the front pocket of his shorts, which are being held up by crisscrossed, black suspenders because the taller he becomes, the sallower his waist gets. He hasn't adjusted to his lanky limbs yet, and suspenders have proven to be far more effective at keeping the boy's trousers up than a belt. "Who needs it?"

Arthur turns down the volume of the radio and raises his eyes. He's getting better and better at playing the role of a strict parent, much to Alfred's chagrin. "Before you can attend a college or a university, you need to complete secondary school."

"But I'm not going to a college or university!"

"And why do you say that?"

"No one in my family ever went to university," Alfred retorts with a grumble, and when Arthur gives him a disapproving look, he adds, "No one in my _old_ family, I mean."

"My boy, a good education is a lifetime investment. A degree means you'll always be able to find a job."

"You don't need a degree to be a farmer or own a store."

Arthur sighs and stands up to put a hand on Alfred's shoulder. "I don't think you understand…"

"No, I understand. You want me to be a lawyer too, but maybe that's not what I want," Alfred says, wringing his hands behind his back. He doesn't know why, but it's not as easy to tell Arthur how he feels as it used to be. No matter what he does, the man just seems to expect more and more from him, and Alfred doesn't know how to placate someone who simply can't be placated. Why can't the man accept that he's not cut out for college—not smart enough?

"You don't have to be a lawyer. It was never my intention for you to think that. You can study whatever you like as long as you put in the effort."

"But why do I havta study?"

" _Have to_ ," Arthur corrects, exasperated. "I've already explained this to you before. Plowing fields or selling bread isn't a stable job. Besides, I thought you enjoyed going to school?"

"I just don't know why you think it's so important. I could grow the world's best potatoes or something and wouldn't have to go to school at all! I could sit in the sun all day and drink lemonade and—"

"And work until your hands are blistered and you contract heatstroke," Arthur finishes for him. "It's not as straightforward as you're making it out to be, lad."

Alfred scratches the back of his neck and huffs. "Still, I should get to make my own decisions."

"All right. When you're of age and can prove you're capable of choosing what's best, you can decide whether to start a farm or a firm, but until then, I'm afraid you'll have to do as I tell you."

Oh, and what a glorious day that'll be! The moment he turns eighteen, he'll finally be able to dictate his own rules, and Arthur will be sorry for ever doubting him. He's sure of it. Once and for all, he'll be able to prove his old man wrong!

"Now, if we're finished here, I'm off to the store to get some milk and cheese, and then I need to tend to the garden."

"I can buy the milk and cheese," Alfred offers, feeling very much like an adult all of a sudden.

If Arthur is surprised by his eagerness to help, he doesn't show it. He just cocks one brow and says, "That'd be lovely, as long as you promise to return with _only_ milk and cheese."

"Milk, cheese, and one cookie from the bakery?"

Arthur rolls his eyes at him and chuckles—a sign that he's not as tough and heartless as he wants the teen to think he is. "Fine. If you must."

* * *

He doesn't _have_ to know. Really, why bother him at all? He's thirteen. That's too old to be coddled.

Alfred rubs his index finger beneath his nose and temporarily rids himself of the tickle in his sinuses. In the heart of the summer, he'd managed to contract some type of cold. It's not serious by any means—nothing more than a sore throat and some dripping nostrils—but it's a nuisance at the very least.

It wouldn't be a problem, except that Arthur has tasked him with the responsibility of clearing out and rearranging the boxes in the basement today, unaware of the boy's less-than-perfect health. His illness would be a good excuse to get out of the chore, but he knows Arthur will confine him to bed for a week if he so much as sniffles in front of him.

The last thing Alfred wants is to be babied, especially when he's been going to great lengths to prove he's capable of taking care of himself. If he wants Arthur to start giving him a bit more freedom, he's going to have to act beyond his years.

And lying under the covers while drinking putrid herbal tea isn't going to help him accomplish that.

Unfortunately, the combination of his cold, the dust, and his sickly lungs makes the assignment far more difficult than it should be. He reaches for one of the boxes lined up against the wall so that he can sort through what should be kept and what should be thrown out, only to discover that the box is impossibly heavy.

Nonetheless, he soldiers on and ignores the pulsating headache now crawling into his skull. He pulls out the first item in the box and finds a framed picture of Arthur and what he assumes are the man's brothers, considering how similar they are in appearance. The tallest brother, Allistor, if he recalls correctly, is holding up a hand and giving Arthur some rabbit ears without him noticing. The other two, Patrick and Dylan, each have an arm wrapped around Arthur's shoulders as they sport identical, giant grins.

Alfred clears the scratchiness in his throat and laughs. It's an endearing photograph, and he wishes he could somehow sneak it into his bedroom and keep it on his nightstand.

He sets the picture aside and goes on to the next object at the top of the box, which is wrapped carefully in newspaper. Inside, is an old, hand-painted Christmas ornament—a porcelain figure of Santa Clause with a jolly smile. It takes Alfred a moment to realize there's a message written on the bottom, and it reads,

 _Happy Christmas from Peter Kirkland._

Alfred tries to think of an occasion when he may have heard that name, but if Arthur has ever mentioned someone called Peter, it was probably brief and undetailed because Alfred doesn't remember his relation to the family at all. His best guess is that Peter is either Arthur's cousin or his nephew. He'll have to ask the man later.

Next, there's a large stack of various Christmas and birthday cards, but Alfred doesn't bother going through them all because most of them are probably similar anyway. Instead, he draws his attention to what made the box so heavy in the first place, a typewriter weighing an atrocious thirty pounds. The gold lettering on the front says, "ROYAL", and it's the tenth model from 1926. It looks like it's in pretty good condition, so Alfred can't imagine why Arthur would let it rot away down here. Maybe he was just tired of lugging the thing around!

The rest of the box is filled with some abandoned novels, leather bibles, and a worn, gray trench-coat.

Alfred figures Arthur will want to keep most of this stuff, so he moves on to the next box, only to discover that it's filled with more photographs and knickknacks that can't possibly be thrown away.

And that's when it dawns upon Alfred that he wasn't assigned this chore just to be made miserable and bored. No, he was supposed to be miserable, bored, _and_ still learn something about Arthur's heritage. These photographs, aged letters, and other memorabilia are the man's way of showing him the past without ever explicitly saying a word.

For a good moment, Alfred is dumbfounded at being so easily tricked. When did his caretaker become sly and conniving like this?

A conceding smile escapes Alfred, followed by a sharp sneeze. He'd love to look through the rest of this stuff, but his throbbing head is making it hard to focus, and so, he packs up the boxes he disturbed and puts everything back in its rightful place the way he found it. By the time everything is spick-and-span again, Alfred wants nothing more than to sleep in his room because it feels as though his eyes are burning to the point they might very well fall out of his face.

He climbs the basement steps and tries to retreat into his room without being noticed, but he must have made too much noise on the stairs because seconds later, Arthur is calling him to come into the kitchen for lunch.

With the sluggishness of a sloth, he meanders into the kitchen and collapses into a chair, trying his very hardest to sit upright and look alert.

"How did the work in the basement go?" Arthur asks, back turned as he pours them both some tea.

"Okay," Alfred rasps, inwardly groaning at how horrible his voice sounds. There's no way he's going to be able to hide this now.

Arthur picks up on his strange behavior at once, both brows traveling further up his forehead as he finally turns around. "Are you all right?"

Alfred swallows a big wad of spit and hopes it'll make him sound less gravelly. No such luck. "Fine."

"You don't sound fine to me," Arthur says with a frown, forgoing the tea in order to get a better look at Alfred. His eyes roam over the teen's rosy cheeks and shivering figure, and he gently rests a hand on his clammy forehead, stunned at the heat he feels. "You have a fever."

"I do?"

"When did you start feeling ill? Be honest."

"Last night."

Arthur crosses his arms unhappily and shakes his head. "And when did you plan to tell me about this?"

"Do I havta answer that question?"

" _Daft boy_ ," Arthur hisses before pointing at the door and saying, "Go upstairs and change into some bedclothes. I'll contact Ivan."

Mortified at the mere idea, Alfred protests. "Don't do that! It's just a cold."

"We won't know for sure until Ivan has a look at you."

"I'm not a little kid! You don't havta call him every time something's wrong with me. And you know how he is…"

"No, I don't know. Enlighten me."

"He's gonna embarrass me and make me feel worse," Alfred whines, wincing at the pain coming from his throat.

"Your asthma—"

"I haven't had a lung spasm in almost a year! It might not even be asthma. Maybe I grew out of it."

Arthur presses a hand against Alfred's back and guides him out of the kitchen with a light push. "I'm not going to argue with you. Go to bed, and I'll be there in a few minutes."

Taking his walk of shame, Alfred goes to his room as he's told and puts on some pajamas, making sure to look horribly displeased as he does so. He can tough this out. He's old enough to manage without having people fuss over him like this.

Arthur brings the tea up to his bedroom, along with a woolen blanket from the downstairs closet. Despite many complaints from Alfred, Arthur successfully wraps the blanket around the teen and combs any sweaty locks of hair away from his face with cool fingers.

"You're terribly warm."

Now that he's lying down, Alfred is aware of how exhausted he is, but there's a peculiar itch just beneath the base of his neck that keeps vying for his attention. He scratches at it half-heartedly, but Arthur stops him mid-scratch, grasping his wrist in one hand.

The man's eyes double in size and he gapes at Alfred, scaring him.

"W-What is it?"

Slowly, Arthur pulls down the collar of his cotton shirt, and reveals a strawberry red rash, and for a long moment, they don't say anything to each other.

When Alfred finally finds his voice, he asks, "What's wrong with me?"

Arthur opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Thankfully, a knock on the door saves him from having to explain, and he gets up hastily. "Don't even consider getting out of this bed. I'll be right back."

He returns with Ivan a minute later, panicked and unable to stand still.

"Arthur, it's going to be all right," Ivan whispers, gripping Arthur's shoulder. "Just stay calm."

"When the neighborhood finds out—"

"Don't worry about them for now. Look, you're frightening him."

It's then that Ivan puts on a cheerful smile and takes a seat on the edge of Alfred's bed, completely at ease. "Hello, Alfred. Toris has been asking about you. Perhaps you two can go down to the river next week."

Alfred knows he's changing the subject on purpose, so he redirects the conversation. "It's not just a cold is it?"

Ivan checks the rash under Alfred's neck and frowns. "No, I'm afraid not."

"Am I going to die?"

Arthur makes a startled noise from the other end of the room and hides his face behind a hand, clearly distraught.

"No, no, no," Ivan assures, taking a thermometer out of his bag and putting it in Alfred's mouth. "That's not going to happen."

After two minutes of stiff silence, Ivan takes the thermometer back and inspects it carefully under the light. "A hundred and two."

"What do I have?"

"Open your mouth, _solnyshko_."

"What's that word mean?" Alfred inquires, but obediently lets his mouth hang open.

"It means you're my 'little sun.' Not many of my patients get that title," Ivan jokes, patting the boy's increasingly red cheek while examining his tongue. "Okay, we are hereby quarantined in this house for approximately seven days."

" _What_?"

"You have scarlet fever, and we can't risk spreading it to anyone else. Arthur, can you do me a favor and call Francis to tell him he'll be watching Toris until further notice? Also, we're going to need to find someone to deliver us some supplies," Ivan instructs, resting one hand soothingly on Alfred's leg. "We need enough groceries to last us and an order of penicillin."

Arthur nods and leaves the room, and everything happens so fast that Alfred's mind struggles to catch up.

"Wait, so am I going to get you guys sick too?"

Ivan blinks at him and furrows. "It's unlikely. It spreads more easily between children, but we could become contagious, which is why we need to stay inside for now. Our biggest concern is making you well again."

He's big now, and he's not supposed to cry, so Alfred doesn't know why his eyes start watering or his throat becomes tight against his will. He has to be brave about this.

"My mother and brother had yellow fever, am I going to get that sick too?"

Ivan rubs his head and says softly, "You're going to be fine. By next week, you'll have forgotten this ever happened, all right?"

It's enough to console him for the moment, and Alfred lets his head sink deeper into his pillow, eyes at half-mast and still slightly damp with tears and sweat.

"Sleep, little sun."

* * *

The world is glazed with red, and all he feels is fatigue and the disgusting stickiness of sickness on his skin. He opens his mouth to talk, but someone pours ice water down his throat instead, and he swallows without really making a conscious decision to do so.

In the early evening, two pairs of arms carry him into the bathroom and undress him. He bats at the prodding hands and moans about everything being too hot, but the hands continue their work, and before long, he ends up in a tub of tepid water, shivering with intense chills and only half-aware of what is being done to him.

Is this what death is like?

Arthur hums some tune from above, and it chases away a bit of the darkness that's been following him in his dreams.

"Scrub, scrub, scrub," Ivan sings along, making up nonsensical words as he runs a bar of soap up and down his arms and legs.

Then, Arthur starts washing the gross collection of sweat out of his hair and massages his scalp, all of which feels absolutely heavenly. A couple of times in between, Alfred thinks Arthur is talking to him, but all of the words are unclear. Still, Alfred can sense the tenderness of his voice, the gentle reassurances, and the soft coos that are meant to keep him relaxed.

He's never been this sick in his entire life, nor has he ever been in such a partially comatose state before. He lets his displeasure and pain be known a few times with a well-placed groan, but Arthur just strokes a soap-sudsy hand across his forehead to quiet him. It works like magic.

He doesn't know how long the bath lasts, but it's long enough to help lower his temperature and make him a bit more aware of the flurry of movement happening around him.

"I think that's good enough," Ivan announces, rinsing away all of the remaining soap from Alfred's feet. "Let's dry him off and get him back into bed."

"Do you think we should give him something to eat?"

"No, he can go without food for now. He's been doing well with the water, which is most important."

He's lifted up again, and a large, fluffy towel is coiled around him before he's carried back to his bedroom. The bedsheets have been changed with fresh ones, and as he lies limply on the bed, Arthur dresses him in a clean set of pajamas as though he's a rag doll, still humming and singing throughout the whole process.

"That's better, isn't it?" Arthur asks him, petting the side of his face. "It'll be all better soon. Just hang in there, all right?"

Unexpectedly, there's a sharp pinch in Alfred's arm, and he lets out a little cry, frightened.

"Shhh, shhh… It was just the penicillin," Arthur tells him as he settles down. "Rest now…"

He doesn't want to die.

* * *

On the third day of the illness, Alfred feels well enough to sit up on his own, and although his throat still hurts and his head feels like it's full of hot air, it's a huge improvement.

It must be Ivan's turn to monitor him because he's sitting in a chair by the bed, reading one of the books Alfred keeps on his shelf. When he notices Alfred's awake, he smiles widely and sets the book down in his lap before feeling the boy's forehead.

"Well, hello there. How are we feeling?"

"Bad," Alfred whispers.

"Hmm, I'm not surprised."

"I think I'm going to be sick."

Ivan scoops up a waste-bin that has already been prepared for such an incident, and holds it under Alfred's chin. Considering he hasn't had anything to eat, he mostly ends up dry-heaving.

"Believe it or not, this is a good sign. You're recovering," Ivan reassures joyfully. "I'll get Arthur to come in here while I clean this up. I'm sure he'd like to speak with you."

Sure enough, Arthur comes sweeping into the room not a minute later, both relieved and concerned. He clearly hasn't slept over the past few days, and for the first time ever, he has gone as far as to neglect his own hygiene. His hair is matted, he's wearing the same trousers he wore yesterday, and he seems to have become thinner. "Oh, my dear boy. Do you know how worried I've been? If you ever become this ill again—I don't know what I'll do."

"Sorry," Alfred offers, genuinely feeling guilty for making everyone fret over him so much.

Arthur takes his hand in his and sighs. "Just get out of this bed soon, all right? If Ivan hadn't been here to help—no, I don't even want to consider the possibility."

Returning with a now clean waste-bin, Ivan snorts and says, "Arthur, will you eat something already? The last thing I need is for you to collapse from malnourishment. And no, tea alone is not considered a proper breakfast."

"I-I haven't had much of an appetite," Arthur murmurs, trying in vain to defend himself.

"Then find yourself something small. Go on, Uncle Ivan will read our dear Alfred a story while you're gone."

Arthur shifts his gaze between Ivan and Alfred a few times, then turns to Alfred one last time and asks, pitifully, "Will you be all right without me for a little while?"

"Yeah. Come back soon though."

"All right. Shout if I'm needed."

When Arthur's out of sight, Ivan smiles at Alfred and says, "He's a mother-hen, isn't he? Let's see here… Ahh, _The Velveteen Rabbit_ , how fitting!"

Ivan does a really funny voice for the Skin Horse, and Alfred finds himself laughing despite the fact that everything hurts and his throat feels like it's being peeled from the inside. Has Arthur come back yet?

 _"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."_

 _"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit._

 _"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."_

He realizes just how loved he is, and the room slips into darkness once more.


	8. Chapter 8

The sun is already high in the sky when Alfred wakes up to the scent of peppermint tea—one of Arthur's favorite blends. The curtains are half-way drawn, letting in only a wisp of light, and there's an irritating, damp sensation on his chest, as though someone decided it would be funny to douse his torso in oil. Further investigation reveals that the greasy substance is actually some sort of balm, and it's been rubbed into the spots where his scarlet rash appears to be most aggressive.

His limbs are weak like those of a newborn calf. From his fingers to the soles of his feet, everything aches and feels sapped of energy, leaving a hollowness in his bones, but his mind is clearer than it has been in days. After a moment of taking in his surroundings, he ventures rolling out of bed, and does so successfully despite almost getting his foot snagged in the bedcovers.

Semi-consumed teacups are littered around the perimeter of the room, along with old newspapers and paperback novels, and Alfred can't help but wonder how arduous the past few days must have been if Arthur hasn't gotten around to tidying up yet.

He stretches his wobbly, teetering legs and carefully makes it into the hallway and down the stairs, bracing himself on the wall each time he tires. By the time he makes it to the living room, he is panting softly and manages to catch the attention of both Arthur and Ivan, who are sitting on the couch—smoking cigarettes and playing cards.

Ivan notices him first, head twitching upward almost intuitively, as if expecting his arrival. He's a peculiar sight, what with how ill-fitting his clothes are. Arthur must've lent them to him because the shirt he's wearing is clearly a size too small, his slacks are a few inches too short, and his heels are protruding out from the leather slippers on his feet.

"Ah, Alfred. How are you feeling?" the man asks, clenching a cigarette between his teeth. "You've been asleep for a while."

Before Alfred can respond, Arthur is upon him, fussing and clicking his tongue at him with unabated concern. "And what do you think you're doing out of bed? You've been senseless for two whole days—driving us completely mad with worry, mind you—and now you want to parade around the house until you collapse? You're going to rest until I'm absolutely certain you've made a full recovery."

"But I just got up!" Alfred whines, frowning when Arthur presses a cold hand against his forehead. It's mildly irritating that he's being smothered so much.

"Your fever hasn't completely broken. You're going straight to bed."

"I don't want to!"

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and puts out his cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table. He opens his mouth to deliver a lecture, but Ivan cheerfully interrupts.

"Alfred, you wouldn't happen to know how to play blackjack, would you?"

"No."

"Your Uncle Ivan will teach you. Luckily, Arthur is a terrible gambler and card-player, so you can practice against him," the man says dryly. "But first, you need to lie down in bed, agreed?"

Alfred has the urge to hug the man in thanks, but refrains at the last second. He can tell Arthur's wearing a sour look on his face from his peripheral vision. "Okay!"

"I hardly think this is a good idea," Arthur grumbles after a moment, eyes following Alfred as the boy treks his way up the stairs a bit breathlessly. "And furthermore, I'd say my card game abilities are decent at the very least."

Ivan chuckles heartily, heading for the stairs as well. "I'm sure Gilbert begs to differ. You still owe him a pack of cigarettes from the last time we played. Now, don't just stand there like a bitter Englishman. We're in quarantine for another two days at the very least, so we might as well find ways to pass the time pleasantly."

"It might surprise you to hear this, but I have plenty of paperwork that I'm behind on and—"

"It's not going to go anywhere. You won't be able to resume work if you can't meet with your clients, so the point is—ahh, what do you lawyers call it again? Moot. The point is moot."

"How you can be in such a jovial mood when you haven't been able to see your son in three days is beyond me."

"Oh, I've already called Francis, and according to him, Toris is having a wonderful time away from me, so I'm not too worried. I miss him, of course, but he's likely baking a _soufflé_ as we speak and has forgotten about my existence for the time being."

Arthur sheds a smile and nods. "Francis is a living disaster, but, in my experience, he's a trustworthy babysitter."

"What worries me more is that Toris is so easily willing let go of me."

"It doesn't mean he cares about you any less. He's simply maturing."

"I know. It's just difficult to accept. It's quite funny, actually. Whenever I would get frustrated with him, I'd always ask, 'When will you finally grow up?' And then he _did_ grow up, but I'm not any happier. I'm sure you feel the same way with Alfred."

"Sometimes, I suppose."

Ivan sighs, a wistful look in his eyes. "It's a crime that children should have to become adults."

* * *

"Arthur?"

The blond mop of hair by his bedside snaps up from its book and turns to face him. "Yes, lad? Are you feeling worse? Is your fever rising again?"

Alfred releases a painful cough and shakes his head. "It's nothing like that. Don't worry so much. I'm almost better."

"What's wrong then?"

"I was just thinking… Thinking about a lot of things because staying in bed all day is boring, and there's nothing else to do, and I already beat you at blackjack ten times—"

Arthur frowns and rests his chin in his hand. "Please skip ahead to your point, poppet."

"I mean, Uncle Ivan was right; you're really bad at card games."

" _Alfred_."

Alfred offers him a cheeky smile before continuing. "But yeah, I don't know… I heard you and Uncle Ivan talking about Toris, and I wanted to know…"

"Wanted to know what?"

"I know I've asked you this before but you've never really answered it… Why did you adopt me?"

Arthur takes in a deep breath and rubs the back of his neck, mulling the question over. He doesn't seem to know what to say for a good while. "Well, I wanted a child."

"But why?"

"It's not easy to explain, I'm afraid. When you're old enough to have a family, you'll understand," Arthur murmurs, placing a hand on Alfred's forehead and turning a bit red in the face. "You'll get a paternal feeling… and that's when you'll know the time is right."

"Oh," Alfred says dumbly, feeling a bit guilty for putting Arthur in such an awkward position.

"For the short time I was married, I thought I'd have a child of my own, but then circumstances changed and that wasn't possible."

"Did you ever think about getting married again to someone else?"

"No, it didn't seem right at the time, and I wasn't ready. Besides, it's improper…"

"How come it's improper?"

Arthur clears his throat and shrugs his shoulders. "I wish I could answer that. I suppose remarrying leads to social stigma, especially if you're religiously affiliated, which was never a problem for me, but still…"

"I'm glad you picked me," Alfred whispers, blushing as well. Sometimes he worries that he doesn't tell Arthur how much he appreciates him enough, and he doesn't want the man to think he doesn't care, because he does. He cares a whole lot.

Arthur laughs softly and presses their foreheads together. "So am I. I'm probably not the type of parent you wanted. For the longest time I simply settled for having Baron because I knew that any child would most likely despise me and—"

"You're who I wanted," Alfred interrupts, all mushy and warm inside. It's cheesy and hard to say, but he has a feeling that Arthur needs to hear it from him at least once. Stubborn and self-deprecating as he is, the man probably won't believe he's being sincere, but it's worth a try anyway.

"A-Ahem, well, thank you… How about you try to sleep for another hour, and I'll bring you some lunch, all right?" Arthur suggests, voice hoarse and thick with emotion. "You still need your rest."

"I'm tired of sleeping."

"I know. When you've fully recovered, we'll go out and do something fun. We can't let the rest of this beautiful summer weather go to waste. Deal?"

"You think it's fun to listen to the cricket matches on the radio. If we're going to have a deal, then you have to promise it'll be _really_ fun."

Arthur gives him a glare and crosses his arms. "Perhaps I ought to have Ivan prescribe you another week of strict bedrest until you're companionable again."

"Okay, okay! I take it back. We have a deal!" Alfred shouts, throwing up his arms desperately. "Please, anything but more sleeping!"

"All right, we have an agreement then."

And, always true to his word, Arthur follows up on the promise. Within two days, Alfred is given a clean bill of health from Ivan, and the quarantine is finally lifted. However, Arthur still makes him take it slow for another few days and limits the amount of time he spends outdoors until the boy gets all of his energy back. With two weeks until the start of the school year, Arthur arranges a camping trip for them.

At first, it's just supposed to be the two of them, but then, Francis, Ivan, Toris, and Gilbert somehow find out about the trip and end up tagging along. Arthur and Francis load up their Ford cars with tents, sleeping bags, and food, and before long, they're off.

They stay at a well-known camping site down by the lake just fifteen miles outside of town, but it's quiet and deserted, so they have the area all to themselves.

The first thing Alfred does when they arrive is make a beeline for the water with Toris chasing after him from behind. He tears off his shirt and sandals, but just as he's about to reach the edge of the lake, Arthur spins around and shouts, " _Alfred Frederick Jones_ , what do you think you're doing?"

With a groan, Alfred lets his hands fall limply to his sides and turns around, deflated. Toris, too, has stopped in his tracks. "You said this was going to be a fun trip! I want to go swimming!"

"It's too early in the morning to be swimming. The water's cold, and you'll catch your death. You can swim this afternoon," Arthur declares, handing Gilbert one of the tents that they'll be setting up.

"But that doesn't even make any sense! It's warm out!"

Alfred dips one of his toes into the water to test the temperature, and Arthur is unsurprisingly right, but it's not _that_ cold. It'll probably be just as cold in a few hours anyway. He bites his lip and notices that Arthur has looked away to tend to unloading the rest of the car, and so, he flashes Toris a mischievous grin and attempts a cannonball dive into the water, dunking his whole body into the lake at once. It's refreshing albeit freezing.

When his head breaks through the surface of the water, Arthur is already yelling at him, ranting about how he's going to give himself pneumonia and probably die and all that other stuff he always frets about.

"Don't think I won't bring you _straight_ home!" he scolds, too irritated to notice Gilbert creeping up behind him until the other man shoves him over the edge of the lake with a bubbling laugh.

Arthur falls into the water face-first with an ungraceful and loud splash, clothes and all. It takes him a few seconds after surfacing to realize what just happened, and when he finally does, his eyes become murderous, and he furiously wades out of the water, dripping and soaked to the bone.

Immediately, Gilbert sprints in the opposite direction, laughing despite being terrified of what Arthur might do to him.

"You _idiot_! Come here!"

"No! You're going to kill me!"

"Killing you would be too merciful!" Arthur growls, running after the man. Unfortunately, he's bogged down by his wet clothes.

Alfred and the rest of the group burst out into hiccups of laughter as Gilbert takes cover behind a tree with Arthur poised to attack him from the opposite side.

"Get out here and face me like a man!"

"Oooh, tough talk from someone who looks like a drowned rat right now."

"I hope you like woodland creatures because you'll be sleeping outside with them tonight."

"That's all right. I'm more likely to get mauled by you than a bear anyway."

As the fight escalates, Alfred gets out of the lake and looks on in anticipation, both amused and horrified for Gilbert's wellbeing. He stands next to Ivan, Toris, and Francis for safety, just to make sure he doesn't get caught in the crossfire.

"I'll bet you a dollar Arthur gets him," Francis tells Ivan with a crooked grin.

"You're on."

After circling around the tree for another minute or so, Arthur surprises Gilbert by jolting forward abruptly and grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. "Who's the rat now?" he asks before tackling the man to the ground, covering them both in dirt and filth. He pins Gilbert down by sitting on top of him, grip still tightly locked around his collar.

" _Ahhh_ , help! I'm sorry! Oh, _mein gott_ , I have so much left to live for! Francis! Francis, tell _mein bruder_ that I hate him and that I want to be cremated, regardless of what he thinks is best!"

"Francis won't help you now," Arthur snarls, shaking Gilbert by the shoulders.

"Have someone play Beethoven's _Moonlight Sonata_ at my funeral!"

Ivan takes a dollar out of his wallet and begrudgingly hands it over to Francis, ignoring the Frenchman's snickering. "I think you've scared him enough, Arthur."

Carefully, Arthur releases Gilbert, deciding he has sufficiently threatened him. "I'm glad I had the foresight to pack beach towels," he grumbles, shaking the water out of his hair before marching back toward the car. "And you," he pauses, pointing at Alfred. "Don't think I've forgotten about your punishment."

"Punishment?" Alfred whines, shoulders slumped. "We were just playing around."

"You and Gilbert can get to work on digging the latrine."

"Ughh, gross!" Gilbert and Alfred gripe in unison, exchanging expressions of disgust.

Smug, Arthur blinks innocently at them and says, "Have fun, boys."

* * *

"Did you hear about Dorothy O'Malley?"

"Who's that?"

"She's the girl who jumped off of the Lyons-Fulton Bridge. She was blind and spent most of her life in a mental asylum because she had 'hysteria.' If you say her name five times, she shows up and takes your eyes right out of your head and steals them for herself," Toris explains, lowering his voice to a cryptic timbre.

Alfred rolls his eyes and waves one of his hands in mock dismissal. "You're lying. That could never happen."

"I dare you to try it then."

"Why would I do that?"

"If it's not true, then why won't you do it?" Toris challenges him, forcing down the swelling smile on his face.

"Okay, maybe I will," Alfred decides, sitting upright in the tent they're sharing. It's nightfall, and everyone else has already gone to sleep. Though he'll never admit it aloud, Alfred's quite afraid of the dark, and he's not sure how to go about summoning this ghost. He won't let himself look weak in front of Toris though, which means he'll have to force away his fears and be brave. "All right… Dorothy O'Malley… Dorothy O'Malley…"

"Scared yet?"

"No," Alfred insists, even though his hands are becoming clammy and his face has paled. "Dorothy O'Malley… Dorothy O'Malley…"

He squeezes his eyes shut and thinks that maybe if he keeps them closed, the ghost won't be able to steal them away. "Dorothy O'Malley!"

It's quiet. Ten seconds pass, and Alfred lets out a little breath of relief, feeling a bit silly for being scared. "See? I told you nothing would—"

The rustling of leaves makes his mouth go dry. He looks at Toris in horror, and now they're both terrified and quivering with only the dim light of their small lantern to ease them.

A twig snaps right outside the flap of their tent, and Alfred screams bloody murder, clutching Toris for dear life. "NO! Don't take my eyes!"

"AHHH!" someone shouts from a few feet away, and Alfred screams even louder, practically in tears. "What the hell is going on? Can't a man take a piss in peace?"

Wait a second… Alfred recognizes that voice. It's Gilbert.

Lo and behold, Gilbert casts aside the flap of their tent after a few seconds and narrows his eyes through the darkness. "Why were you screaming?"

Unable to contain himself, Toris erupts with laughter and flops to the ground, covering his face with his hands. "I can't believe you fell for that!"

"Oh, shut up!" Alfred frowns, punching Toris in the ribs. "That wasn't funny."

No more than a minute later, a groggy Arthur and Ivan reach the entrance to their tent as well, concern on their faces.

"What's going on?" Arthur asks, voice laden with the slur of sleep. He peeks his head into the tent and glowers. "Are you boys all right?"

Alfred juts his bottom lip out and replies, "Toris scared me!"

" _Toris_ ," Ivan mumbles disapprovingly. "Apologize right now."

Toris is still laughing, but he slowly gets his composure back and murmurs an unconvincing "Sorry."

"Scared the crap outta me too," Gilbert accuses from somewhere outside. "It's a good thing I had already finished peeing. Well, if that's all, I'm going back to bed."

Ivan and Arthur make a movement to follow him, but that's when another sting of fear runs through Alfred's chest and he squeaks, "Wait!"

Arthur yawns and looks down at him with lethargic eyes. "Go to sleep, lad."

"But what… What if the ghost—?"

"There's no such thing as ghosts," Arthur assures, ruffling the boy's hair. "Goodnight."

"But how do you know?"

"I just do. Trust me."

"Okay. I trust you, but if the ghost comes and takes my eyes out—"

Arthur chuckles lightly and closes the flap of their tent once more. "Should that happen, I'll come out and deal with it."

And so, they get through the night ghost-free.

* * *

" _Oh, I wish I had someone to love me_

 _Someone to call me their own_

 _Oh, I wish I had someone to live with_

 _'Cause I'm tired of living alone_ ," Gilbert sings by the morning campfire, eating a half-charred bratwurst for breakfast.

Francis is cooking up some eggs, ham, and toast for everyone while Toris sits on a nearby log and sketches a picture in his notebook. Arthur and Ivan, on the other hand, are tidying up the campsite and talking about the upcoming presidential election in November as well as a bunch of other topics of discussion that Alfred isn't very interested in.

"Anyone but that bastard Hoover," Arthur grumbles, picking up the empty cans of soup they were eating from the previous day.

" _I'll be carried to the new jail tomorrow_

 _Leaving my poor darling all alone_

 _With the cold prison bars all around me_

 _And my head on a pillow of stone_."

"Can't you sing something a little more joyful for once, Gilbert?" Francis asks, scrambling the eggs over the fire with a worn-down skillet.

Gilbert stops his singing for a second and huffs, clearly insulted. "Excuse me for wanting to sing something that reflects the realities of life rather than the garbage everyone else buys into."

" _Now if I had wings like an angel_

 _Over these prison walls I would fly_

 _And I'd fly to the arms of my poor darling_

 _And there I'd be willing to die_."

Francis clicks his tongue but doesn't comment any further, too busy with making sure the eggs don't turn out to be too crispy or soggy. When he's satisfied with the consistency, he serves Toris a plate and then passes the next one to Alfred.

"Eat everything, Alfred. You're getting awfully thin again," Arthur reminds.

And it's true, Alfred is getting thinner and lankier, but he can't help it. He's been eating plenty, but he's also been growing taller every day, and so, any meat he used to have has been redistributed down his long legs and arms.

"Roosevelt seems like he has a good head on his shoulders," Ivan says before accepting his own plate of breakfast.

Arthur nods in agreement and takes a bite of toast. "Let's hope so."

* * *

They start packing up to leave on the third day of camping. Aside from Alfred, everyone is looking forward to going home to a warm bath. Reprieve from the blasted mosquitoes would also be a blessing, and although Alfred wishes they could stay for another day or two, he knows all of the men have to get back to work, especially with the economy being what it is.

He takes one last swim in the lake with Toris, and they're back on the road by sunset, smelling like the forest and sporting sun-kissed tans and burns. They reach town in an hour, but Alfred falls asleep during the car ride, tired from all of their adventures, so he misses the scenic parts of the trip. Arthur shakes him awake once they're parked in front of the house, and he lets out sluggish protests as the man walks him up the porch steps and steers him toward the couch in the living room.

"This is what happens when you stay up late," Arthur chides, well aware that he and Toris were awake long after everyone else went to sleep yet again. "And now who's going to have to carry all of our things into the house alone? Me, that's who. The thanks I get…"

Alfred opens his mouth to apologize, but the words fade from his lips, and he doesn't get a chance to properly say them.

At some point, after most of the camping equipment has been put away, Arthur sits beside his sleeping figure on the couch and rubs his back. "Troublesome boy…"

"Sorry," Alfred finally manages to mumble. "I'll be good."

Arthur laughs a pleasant laugh that lulls him back to sleep and says, "I won't cross my fingers."

* * *

Footnote:

The song Gilbert sings in this chapter is called _The Prisoner's Song_ by Vernon Dalhart, and it's from 1925.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note:** Hello, everyone! You may have noticed that I raised the rating of this story to T as a precaution, and that's because we're going to be delving into some heavier topics from this point on. That being said, enjoy the chapter!

* * *

 _September 1932_

The afternoon rush at _Beilschmidt Sweets_ is just beginning to die down when Alfred walks in, sullen and droopy-eyed despite the lively buzz of the street outside. The bell on the door jingles behind him as he enters, and he drags his feet over to the counter, very tempted to cry but too ashamed to show such weakness in front of so many witnesses.

"Hey, what are you doing in here with that frown? We don't let sad, little boys into this shop, you know. You're ruining the atmospheric quality of the business," Gilbert barks at him as Ludwig checks out the rest of the customers. There isn't any real bite in his words, and Alfred swears he even hears a drop of concern in the man's voice.

"I'll leave," Alfred says, swallowing hard and pulling his bag of schoolbooks closer to his hip.

"Now, wait a second!" Gilbert growls, casting his newspaper aside rather roughly. "Come over here."

With the obedience of a dog, Alfred stands directly in front of the man, ashen-faced. He doesn't know why he decided to come here, of all places, but he certainly didn't want to go straight home, where he would've been greeted by a curious and prying Arthur. While he appreciates his caretaker's support and desire to help, there are some things he simply wouldn't understand.

"Today was the first day of the school year, right?"

"Yeah."

"Is that why you look like you just came back from a funeral? You don't like your new school?"

Alfred swallows hard and shakes his head, pretending not to see how Gilbert's face is becoming more and more wrinkled with worry. "I hate it."

And although hate is a strong word, it's not an understatement in the least. For starters, the mere location of the school is on the other side of town, meaning he has to make a grueling thirty minute march to get there. The classes are bigger, Toris is in a completely different room, his teacher is a heartless jerk, and he's already been assigned a lengthy reading that he has to finish by next class. Oh, and to top things off, his classmates are monsters.

"What's so bad about it?"

Needing to express his frustrations to someone, Alfred doesn't hesitate to go on a rant and explain every detail of the cruelties of this educational institution, adding a few exaggerations here and there for extra effect. He's determined to go home and tell Arthur he's dropping out because there's no way he'll be able to survive four years in such a prison.

"Maybe you have to give it some time. The first month is always the hardest because you have to get used to everything. I hated school when I was your age too, but then I made some good friends that I got into lots of trouble with and that's how I got through it," Gilbert reasons, sounding quite rational for once.

"I don't think I'm going to make any friends there."

"Why not? You just have to find your people and stick with 'em."

Alfred scratches at his arm and tries not to look too pitiful as he says, "I got laughed at already."

"Laughed at? For what?"

"Cause all of the other boys are bigger than me, and I'm not as strong as they are. They started pushing me around during break, and I wanted to push them back but I _couldn't_ ," Alfred mumbles mournfully, dropping his head in shame.

"Why couldn't you?"

"I was afraid, and Arthur always says that—"

"Ack, the hell with what Arthur says. You have to stand up for yourself. If you show those kids you're tough, they won't think to mess with you again. Now, listen here, what you have to do is go right up to one of them—the ringleader, preferably—and give 'em a solid right hook to the jaw. He'll be so shocked he won't know what hit him," Gilbert grumbles, double-checking to make sure Ludwig isn't eavesdropping. "You do that, and you'll be left alone for four years. I guarantee it. You can't be soft with these kinds of things."

Alfred nibbles on his lip and shifts his weight from foot to foot in thought. "I don't know…"

"It's easy as long as you get the technique right," Gilbert insists, demonstrating in the air how he should hit the bully, breaking the movement down into simple steps and then nodding in approval when Alfred mimics him. "No matter what, you stand your ground, got it? If you let people step on you now, they'll treat you like a doormat for the rest of your life. It's good you learn that lesson sooner instead of later."

"I wish I was still in Mr. Honda's class."

"No, you don't want to be there again. You're too old to be with the munchkins. You're well on the way toward becoming a man, and a man has to know how to fight. Here, treat yourself to some toffee. It'll make you feel better."

Alfred takes the proffered candy from Gilbert's hand and chews it, already feeling substantially calmer. "Thanks."

"No worries, squirt. So, you know what you're going to do when you go back to school tomorrow, right? Or do we have to go over it again?"

"No, I've got it."

"All right. Good boy. Now get home before Arthur starts fretting and gives himself a migraine."

* * *

Fortunately, Arthur is rather busy with a new case, and he's so distracted that he doesn't notice Alfred's despondent demeanor when the boy enters the house. Without looking up from the stack of papers in his hands, he asks, "How was school?"

"Fine."

And being the workaholic he tends to be, Arthur accepts the reply with an absent hum of approval and rubs his chin. "Wonderful. Dinner is on the table," he murmurs, trotting up the stairs. "I'll be in my office should you need me."

"Okay."

It's a welcome response because Alfred really doesn't feel like being lectured or interrogated today, and he has a fair amount of his own work to take care of. He sits in the kitchen and eats his dinner quickly, head spinning with a million thoughts about what the next four years will hold for him. Maybe Gilbert's right after all; now is the time to establish his reputation. He doesn't want to be known as scrawny, chicken-legged Alfred until graduation. He's a fighter. Let them tremble when they hear his name.

Mind made up, he spends the rest of the evening in the solitude of his room and goes to bed earlier than usual, incredibly exhausted after such an emotional day. By the time the sun comes up, he's energized and a little giddy, and although he's looking forward to dealing with his tormentors, he's also dreading the possibility that he'll be outnumbered and brutally pummeled.

He's hardly able to hold his breakfast down as he walks out the door, mumbling a curt goodbye to Arthur before stepping out into the crisp, autumn wind. He zips his jacket halfway and hides his hands in his pockets, imagining what he'll say and do when he sees the group of boys.

He finds the trio lurking about the back of the school a few minutes before class starts, and, following Gilbert's instructions to the letter, he storms over to the middle boy, draws his fist back, and strikes him soundly in the mouth with a sickening crack, astounded by his own power. Time seems to slow down as the boy brings a hand up to cradle his face, and then, before Alfred can duck, the boy hits him back, flinging away his glasses and landing a solid hit on his left eye.

As Alfred tries to recover, the other two boys knock him to the ground and kick him in the ribs, unrelenting. He's not sure how long the entire ordeal lasts, but after somewhere around the tenth kick, Alfred is sure he's going to die right then and there, curled up in the fetal position and clutching his chest. His ears ring, his heart pounds desperately, and he bites back a whimper as he feels something in his abdomen get jostled.

He gasps for breath and grits his teeth, wishing he'd never taken Gilbert's advice. He's not strong, and now he's got the proof. He's lying pathetically on the grass, half-deaf and defenseless as the other boys shout and howl down at him in triumph. He doesn't know what they're saying because of the shock and hysteria his body is going through, but their words are probably vulgar and cold, and they're yelling at him so loud that he feels some of their spit land on his face.

He can't let them win so easily.

With a moan of distress, he wraps an arm around his middle and jumps to a standing position, eyes looking like blue fire. He throws himself at the nearest boy and drives a knee into his sternum, keeping him down. Then, he rips at the boy's hair and throws another punch at him as though he's in some kind of frenzy, completely unaware of what he's doing until someone runs off and brings a teacher back with them.

The teacher tears Alfred away from the boy and spins him around to meet his gaze, angry in a dozen different ways.

Alfred's first urge is to run—run and never look back—but the teacher's grasp is tight and bruising, so he can't break free. He blinks at the man but doesn't say a word, not even knowing what should be said in this kind of situation.

"Come with me," the teacher decides, grabbing him by the ear and twisting it hard.

Alfred turns his neck around to look back at the three boys, and all of them are now snickering and sneering. As he's led away, he picks his glasses up from the ground. They are, miraculously, undamaged. "But they were hitting me too!"

"Quiet!"

The ringing in his ears has finally stopped, but his left eye has swollen considerably, and he can only keep it open at half-mast as he's escorted into a classroom and told to hold out his hands, palm-side-up. "I didn't—!"

A wooden yardstick smacks the sensitive flesh of his hands and he lets out a surprised yelp, watching with horror as the teacher delivers another several swats for good measure.

Courage lost, Alfred doesn't hold back his tears, sobbing and shaking as the teacher sits him in a desk and writes up a note that he'll have to get signed by Arthur when he returns to school tomorrow.

A minute later, the note gets shoved into his hands. "Go to class."

But he doesn't. He leaves the desk, goes out into the corridor, and dashes out the front doors of the school, breaths uneven and contracting with the onset of one of his infamous lung spasms, which he now knows to be asthma attacks.

Once he's out on the street, he doesn't know where he's intending to go or what he's going to do. Arthur is most likely at the firm, and Alfred doesn't even want to think about seeing him while he's in this kind of state. So, he walks in the direction of the house but slows his pace when his lungs begin to hurt, tears pouring out of his new black eye.

He could go back to _Beilschmidt Sweets_ , but then Gilbert might make fun of him for failing and being weak. Francis is at work today as well, and he's busy cutting hair and giving people trendy looks for the new season. Plus, there's nothing either man would be able to do for his worsening asthma. There's a bottle of ephedrine at home, and he's pretty sure he knows how much he should take, and then he could cure it himself without anyone ever knowing.

It's the best idea he's got, and so, he begins the shameful stroll home, head bowed and eyes stinging. He doesn't stop to talk to anyone like he normally does, nor does he take a detour to the bakery. No, he follows the road without any distractions, daydreaming about slithering into his warm bed and falling asleep for the remainder of the school year.

"Alfred? Where are you off to at this time? Shouldn't you be in school?"

It's Ivan. Even though he's looking down at his shoes, he can tell who it is merely by the man's distinct, hearty voice. He doesn't dare lifting his head as he says, "I didn't feel well, and so I'm gonna go home."

He hears Ivan make a noise of disapproval above him. "Does Arthur know about this?"

"Yeah. He knew I wasn't well this morning," Alfred lies, a wheeze sneaking its way out of his throat as he takes a breath. He prays Ivan didn't hear it.

"Look at me, _solnyshko_."

"I really think I should get home."

Carefully, Ivan puts a hand under his chin and tilts his head up. When he sees the condition of Alfred's eye, he hisses, sneaks two gentle fingers beneath his frames, and runs them across the discoloration. "And does Arthur know about _this_?"

"Not yet," Alfred admits with a small cough.

Without further comment, Ivan momentarily turns away from Alfred to get something out of his bag, and, thankfully, it's the ephedrine Alfred has been wanting to get his hands on. Ivan pours a bit of it into a bottle cap and hands it over to him, and he gratefully accepts it before downing the vile substance.

"Better?"

"Yeah. Thank-you."

Ivan nods and takes a step forward. "I'm taking you over to the firm."

"No!" Alfred pleads, sorely tempted to get down on his knees. "I'll just go home and wait until he gets back."

"He needs to have a look at this right away, and you need to tell him how it happened."

Alfred frowns and rubs circles into a tender spot next to his ribs, vaguely aware of his still aching palms. He's pretty sure one of them has a sizeable welt, but he's too scared to look.

"Let's go. Now," Ivan persists, not taking no for an answer.

The firm isn't far but that doesn't make the journey any less grueling. As they near the building, Alfred realizes that he's always seen it from the outside but has never actually gone inside. Ivan, however, seems well-acquainted with its interior layout because he saunters right along without pausing, waving to a clerk inside the lobby before leading them up the stairs to the third floor.

They walk through a long, narrow hallway, and, at the end of it, there's a silver plaque on the wall that reads, " _Arthur Kirkland_ , _Criminal Law_."

The door is closed, so Ivan knocks. The muffled chatter going on inside fades, and when the door swings open, Arthur seems lost in thought until his brain registers who his visitors are, and he blinks dumbly at them, horribly confused. However, that confusion swiftly pales when he draws his attention to Alfred's black eye.

"What in the world—?" he sputters, and much like Ivan had done several minutes ago, he casts out a hand, slips off Alfred's glasses, and touches the injury. "What happened? Why aren't you in school?"

Alfred clears his throat and glowers, unsure how he should go about explaining everything. "I stood up to a bully like Gilbert told me to."

Arthur stares at him with incredulity, and the muscles in his jaw twitch. He puts Alfred's glasses back on for him and says, "I'll be with you in a moment. Let me just finish up with a client."

The door closes again, and the chattering returns, although this time it is less animated. After a couple of minutes, a strange man with dark hair and deep-set eyes walks out of the office. Alfred doesn't know why, but there's something creepy and unsettling about him. Of course, Arthur has told him that he sometimes works with people who might be considered dangerous in the public's view, but Alfred has never set his eyes on one of them before.

The man brushes past them before he comes to an abrupt halt and looks at Alfred, just as intrigued. "Hey, there. Yer going to court, too?"

"No," Alfred whispers, shaken.

The man cracks a smile and cocks his head, not nearly as scary-looking when he's cheerful. "It was just a joke. Stay outta trouble, boy," he grunts, pulling a cigarette out of his shirt pocket. "Nothing good comes outta pickin' fights. I can tell yer that much," he adds before giving Arthur a brief salute and stalking away.

When the man is on the stairs and out of earshot, Arthur turns his attention to Alfred once more and looks at him sternly, arms crossed. "Come in."

Alfred gulps and hunches his shoulders, aware there isn't any possible way this could go well. If he hadn't been so concerned about his punishment, he would've admired the impressive desk at the head of the room, as well as the towering bookshelves filled with various revised editions of state statutes arranged all around the office. Arthur certainly does a lot of dense reading, and judging by the man who was just in his office, he's met some fascinating characters in his line of work as well.

"Sit down, Alfred," he orders, gesturing to the large, leather sofa in front of his desk.

Honestly, now that he's had time to think about it, Alfred would rather be punished than go back to class. At least he knows what to expect with Arthur, and although whatever his caretaker decides to do with him will probably suck for a little while, he'd still rather be with him than his terrible classmates.

He sits down as Arthur steps out for a moment to have a word with Ivan, which means he's left in the spacious office all alone, awe-struck by the many papers on the desk. He tries to steal a glimpse of what Arthur might be working on, but everything is full of legal jargon that he doesn't understand in the slightest.

Two minutes go by, and Arthur returns without Ivan, closing the door behind him with a click. He goes over to the desk, takes a seat in his chair, and sighs heavily at Alfred. "You know it's very irresponsible to leave class and wander off. What if something had happened? I wouldn't have been able to find you because I'd have no idea where you'd gone. What then?"

Alfred gnashes his teeth together and mumbles, "Sorry."

"Who gave you that nice shiner?"

"A boy from school."

"And did you go to your teacher?"

He reaches into his bag and pulls out the note he received and slides it across the desk for Arthur to see. The man looks at it for a long moment, reading each word with intense focus before setting it aside and sighing again. "You started a fight?"

"They were making fun of me yesterday, so I—"

"So you responded with violence," Arthur finishes for him, massaging his temple. "Who was this boy?"

"There were three of them. I don't know their names."

Arthur purses his lips and makes his own memo on a blank sheet of paper. "Well, I'm going to your school tomorrow to find out who they are, so I can speak to their mothers or fathers."

"No!" Alfred shouts, immediately regretting the outburst when Arthur looks at him darkly. "That's embarrassing! I won't talk to them again, but please don't tell their parents!"

"I'll do what I see fit," Arthur declares without leaving room for protest. "Were you hurt anywhere else?"

"They kicked me in the chest."

"Lift up your shirt."

Cautiously, Alfred eases up the tail of his shirt and then pulls it up in the front, revealing the mosaic of blue and purple bruising. He waits in anticipation as Arthur scans the damage, and when he's seen enough, he lets the shirt fall down to its original position once more.

"Is that all?"

He displays the several welts on his palms and says, "That's from the teacher."

Arthur makes a face and scowls before adding another few words to his memo. "I'm going to speak with this teacher as well. He may wish to use such antiquated methods on other students whose parents approve of them, but not on you."

In the years they've lived together, Arthur has never dished out any form of physical repercussions on him. On more than one occasion, and in the presence of others, the man has discussed his dislike of corporal punishment. Aside from a firm grab or pull, he's never put a hand on the boy, which is strange, because as far as Alfred knows, almost everybody else does it.

Back in elementary school, Mr. Honda never dealt out harsh discipline like that either, and thus, Alfred has always been quite unfamiliar with such use of force until now.

"And what's this nonsense regarding Gilbert?"

Alfred swipes the remaining tears from his eyes and feels a pang of pain spread throughout his heart. He doesn't want to snitch on Gilbert, but he's already let the detail slip, so he can't turn back on it now. "He said that if the boys in school are picking on me, then I should hit them because it would make them scared of me."

"Of course he did," Arthur groans, getting up from his desk and stretching his stiff legs. "You should have come to me straight away instead of seeking his ridiculous suggestions. My boy, it takes true strength to be able to hold back your fist and walk away. Aggression only makes matters worse. I cannot even being to tell you how many men have walked through the door of this office facing criminal assault charges because they lost control of their anger and found themselves in a brawl. We live in violent enough times as it is and adding fuel to that fire will solve absolutely nothing."

Alfred bites his lip and nods to show he understands.

"I'm very disappointed in you for behaving the way you did. I will find a suitable punishment for you later. However, I'm also upset with how the school handled this matter, but that's something I'll deal with during the coming days. For now, let's go and see Gilbert."

"Do we _have_ to?"

"Yes, and let's also get you some ice for that eye. My goodness, what possesses children to do this to each other?

Although he doesn't know it yet, years later, Alfred will ask himself this same question.

* * *

"Explain this."

" _Oooh_ , kid. Those bastards did this to you? Maybe your good, ol' Uncle Gilbert should take a walk over there and—"

"You've done quite enough, thank you," Arthur interjects with a venomous glare, his hands clutching Alfred's shoulders as he presents the damage to the man. "I hope you're happy now."

Gilbert inhales sharply and snaps his fingers. "Wait a second! You can't blame all of this on me. I was just trying to help."

"And you did more harm than good, it would seem."

"The kid has to know that there's a cruel world waiting out there, and he has to be tough if he wants to survive in it."

Arthur scoffs loudly and pushes Alfred's bangs back to reveal the black eye in all of its glory. "He does _not_. Look at how helpful your recommendation was. When you have children of your own, you can impart whatever values you'd like onto them, but Alfred is my child, and I, for one, do not wish to see him become a fugitive at the age of thirteen!"

Gilbert clicks his tongue, eyes flitting down to look at Alfred. "Did you at least get him back?"

"Yeah," Alfred says with the hint of a smirk. "I got the last punch in."

Gilbert's face splits into a giant grin and he ruffles the boy's hair with pride. "That's what I'm talking about!"

"Enough!" Arthur growls, pulling Alfred to stand behind him. "This is precisely how hatred is bred, and it's the reason we have the types of global crises that we do. If people were more open to the idea of diplomacy—"

"Yeah, sure, keep lying to him. Diplomacy is dead."

And, to prove his point, Gilbert shoves the most recent issue of _The Illinois Inquirer_ at Arthur. On one of the pages, there's a black and white image of the Altona Bloody Sunday riot which took place in Germany back in July. Apparently, there were some new developments in terms of the criminal investigation regarding some of the belligerents, which is why it had made the front page of the international news section.

In the picture, a police officer is restraining a man while several others officers are scurrying around behind them to maintain peace.

"There you have it—Nazis and communists working things out through diplomacy," Gilbert remarks with heavy sarcasm, an unlit cigarette lazily hanging out of his mouth. "Eighteen people dead just four months before the federal election. Exciting stuff… The Nazis will consolidate power in the Reichstag by the new year."

Arthur shakes his head and tosses the paper back at Gilbert, furious. "Let's go, Alfred. I'm taking you home."

"You won't always be able to keep him safe under your wing," Gilbert says from behind them.

"We'll see about that," Arthur snarls, slamming the door to the candy shop on their way out.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note:** I'm back with another chapter (and now that it's finished, I have to stop procrastinating and finally finish my ten page research paper)! Also, for anyone who wasn't sure about the current place in the timeline, Alfred is thirteen. Enjoy!

* * *

"Don't make me go back," Alfred begs, digging his heels into the concrete as he's dragged across town by an exasperated Arthur (an Arthur, mind you, who is functioning without his morning serving of tea because the kettle isn't working properly and needs to be replaced). "I'll do anything you want me to as long as you don't send me back to school!"

"There are children in this world who would be unspeakably grateful to have the privilege of getting an education," Arthur says in a chiding tone, yanking Alfred along. He raises his left hand to check his watch and frowns, increasingly annoyed.

"Then send _them_ to school instead of me!"

"I'm not playing this game with you, Alfred. I'm about to be late to work."

"Let me be a farmer. It's my dream!" Alfred shouts at the sky dramatically, wrist aching because of how much Arthur has been tugging on it.

"I'm tempted to leave you here by the roadside, so I can be done with this absurdity once and for all!"

And then, for just a second, Arthur's eyes flash with an idea, and he blinks slowly at Alfred as though he's just reached some sort of epiphany. "You say you want to be a farmer? Right then, be careful what you wish for," he murmurs cryptically, making the final strides toward the schoolhouse. "Go straight to your class, hand the note I gave you to your teacher, and don't give him any reason to reprimand you, all right? I'll be picking you up at the end of the day because I don't want you dawdling and getting into another mess with those boys until I'm certain they won't come near you again, understood?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir," Alfred grumbles, begrudgingly walking up to the entrance of the school.

Arthur stands on the sidewalk and watches him head inside, relaxing somewhat. "Have a good day!"

When the words reach Alfred's ears, he spins around and gives Arthur a baleful look as though to say, "Yeah right." His black eye has only become worse within twenty-four hours, and that makes his solemn expression far more powerful. He truly looks like an abandoned, neglected child who has been mistreated by the world at large.

Nonetheless, Arthur makes his way for the firm, content in the knowledge that Alfred will be okay if he still has the ability to be so melodramatic. After all, it's what teenagers do best.

This doesn't mean, however, that he isn't taking the boy's troubles to heart. He is, but, unlike Alfred, he i knows how to make those troubles manageable.

He has a few calls to make.

* * *

Who would've thought he and Mrs. Collins (the mother of one of the boys from Alfred's school) would've gotten along so well? Over the phone, she's a very pleasant woman, albeit a bit too chatty for Arthur's liking. When she hears about the actions of her son over the past few days, she immediately apologizes at great length and mentions previous incidents whereby the boy has ended up in similar situations.

"I just don't know what to do with him anymore. It must be a phase. Boys at this age can be a handful. When his father gets home, he's going to get the strapping of a lifetime, I guarantee it," she promises, hardly giving Arthur a chance to reply. "Oh, it's horrible! He gets it from his grandfather, I tell you! He, too, always thought he was better and mightier than everyone else. I'll knock the trait right out of him if I must. Please send your boy—what's his name again? Ah, yes, Alfred. Send him my sincerest apologies. I have no doubt he's a sweet child. Thank you for informing me about this. I have two older girls, and they're complete angels in comparison. Then again, girls are complacent by nature. It's a lovely thing. If I had another son, I'd have been driven to the brink of insanity already."

Sensing the conversation would continue if left unchallenged, Arthur interrupts as politely as he can and says, "Excuse me, Mrs. Collins. I'm terribly sorry, but some urgent business has suddenly come up, and I really should tend to it."

"Oh, of course! My, look at the time! I've kept you far too long as is. Take care of yourself and your boy, dear. If there's anything else I can do for you, don't hesitate to call."

"That's very kind of you. Thank you."

The other parents, unfortunately, are not quite as pleasant. One father, for instance, plainly tells him that his boy was in the right, and if Alfred doesn't want to get into any more fights, he should keep his distance and "shut his mouth."

Courtesy long forgotten, Arthur replies with "and if your boy doesn't want to face criminal charges, I highly suggest he restrain himself and use some God-given sense before he dares to put a hand on my child again. Good day."

The last pair of parents answer the phone but then hang up on him, and thus, Arthur decides the only way to ensure Alfred will be left alone is by switching his class. A quick call to the school office makes such an arrangement possible, and with a little maneuvering, he's able to get him placed in the same class as Toris. He hopes that this, at the very least, will get Alfred to be incrementally more enthusiastic about going to school.

Then, there's still Alfred's punishment, which he hasn't quite gotten around to scheduling. He makes a final call to an old acquaintance, and after an explanation of the circumstances followed by a humble request for a favor, a settlement is reached, and Arthur is finally able to get back to his work with lighter shoulders.

At last, Alfred is going to learn a lesson he won't soon forget.

* * *

"We're going on a trip?" Alfred asks with irrepressible excitement as Arthur takes out a luggage bag and begins packing a set of clothes for the boy during the following weekend.

"Well, I have a bit of work to do here, but a friend of mine has agreed to show you around the fields. He owns a small farm outside of town, and I thought it might be a good experience," Arthur clarifies with a perfectly neutral expression. "I've already prepared a change of clothes for you. You can finish packing any items you'd like to bring along. Keep in mind it's only for a day and a half, so you should travel light."

Pleased with any excuse to be able to get out of the house and run around outside, Alfred is completely enthralled with the idea, rushing to gather his final belongings so they can leave as soon as possible.

After breakfast on Saturday, Arthur gets them into the car and drives the boy to the location, following a road through a cluster of sprawling hills. "Now, when we get there, I expect you to be on your best behavior. Feliks has been gracious enough to show you around, and I know you'll express your gratitude for his charitable offer."

"Uh-huh," Alfred says because he knows Arthur is waiting for him to agree. He's already imagining all of the cool stuff he'll get to do, especially since autumn is harvest season.

The drive lasts under an hour and as soon as the car is brought to a full stop, Alfred jumps out of the passenger's seat and lets his eyes roam over the golden fields, eyes shining with amazement.

Feliks comes out to greet them a few seconds later, a soft smile on his face. His blond hair is quite long and curtains the sides of his face, and he's wearing a sun hat, which makes him appear rather friendly and approachable.

Alfred holds out a hand to him and the man shakes it, introducing himself. "Feliks Lukasiewicz at your service. It's totally awesome that I finally get to meet you, Alfred. Arthur got me out of a tight spot once, and—anyway, that's all in the past now. Why don't you come inside? I've got some lemonade in the kitchen. Are you coming too, Arthur?"

"I have to be on my way, I'm afraid," Arthur declines. However, before he leaves, he rests a hand on Alfred's back and asks, "Will you be all right without me?"

"Yeah, of course!" Alfred assures, exchanging a very brief hug with him before running off in the direction of Feliks's house.

Arthur nods, a little sullen as he says, "I'll see you soon."

And then, Alfred finds himself sitting at a nice, oak table, sipping icy lemonade and listening to the birds chirp from outside, not even having the time to miss Arthur's presence. Feliks helps him get settled in by bringing his stuff up to the bedroom he'll be staying in, and then explains the location of other rooms throughout the house. He speaks very quickly, and although Alfred think it's because the man is eager to get back to work, he soon realizes that Feliks is actually quite loose-lipped by nature, and if left to his muse, can talk for hours without bothering to take a breath.

Once the formalities are out of the way, Feliks decides it's time to jump into some chores, and he enlists Alfred's help in the afternoon milking of two dairy cows. As a boy who has spent more time in the city than not, Alfred finds it to be a funny ordeal, and when he sits down on the milking stool next to a cow named Old Magdalena, he expects to make quick work of the task.

Contrary to his hopes, getting the milk out of the cow and into the aluminum bucket proves to be ridiculously hard, and even though Feliks coaches him through it and tells him to keep squeezing the udders without pulling on them, his hands start cramping up from the effort. After many errors, he ends up with a fairly decent amount of milk in his bucket, and he has to take a pause to wipe the sweat off of his forehead with the back of his arm. He turns for a second to look at Feliks's own progress, and just as he does, Old Magdalena gets restless and tires of Alfred's inexperienced hands. Unforgivingly, she kicks the bucket over with her back leg, looking quite pleased with herself when all of Alfred's hard work spills into the grass.

Feliks turns around, lets out an angry sigh, and says, "I should have warned you that she likes to kick. There goes our product."

"I'm sorry," Alfred mutters, cheeks aflame with humiliation. His first assignment, and he's already managed to mess up.

"Yeah, don't worry about it. It's not that bigguva deal, anyway," Feliks insists, even though the creases in his forehead seem to disagree. "Try to get a little more outta her, and we'll give it a rest."

And so, he does. Thankfully, he's able to avoid another incident, but the sting of embarrassment is still cartwheeling in his gut. After a while, Feliks gets up, reaches down to touch his toes and stretch his muscles, and says, "I'll let them graze for a while, and then I'll bring them inside to the barn. Why don't you get started on sweeping up the floors in there until then?"

Alfred nods his head and tightens his stance, determined to do better this time. He listens intently to Feliks' instructions before speeding off toward the barn and grabbing the nearest broom by the door.

The first thing that strikes him is how dusty and dry it is inside; he can see little bits of debris and hay floating through the air in the glowing sunlight. Also, the barn is bigger than it looks from the outside and that means it's going to take far longer to clean up than he thought it would.

Nonetheless, there's no room to complain. He doesn't want to make it seem like he can't handle this type of lifestyle. He can. It just takes some getting used to. Besides, if he decides to call it quits so soon, Arthur is going to hear about it, and then he'll have to listen to the old man gloat for days upon days (and perhaps even weeks or months) about how he was right yet again, and Alfred will have no choice but to surrender to fate and become a darn lawyer.

He starts at the end of the barn and works his way up to the double-doors, sweeping in wide, linear motions, and occasionally sneezing from the dust going up his nose. By the time everything looks satisfactory enough, his arms ache, his back is screaming for him to have a rest, and there's a new crick in his neck that he didn't have before.

Feliks brings the dairy cows inside and nods in approval at Alfred's work, which makes the entire effort worthwhile. Old Magdalena gives him a sideways glance and makes a deep, rumbling moo as she trots by as though she finds genuine pleasure in mocking him.

"Well, I guess I'll head back to the house and—"

"The house?" Feliks asks him, intrigued. "But we're not even close to being done for the day. We still have to deal with the chicken coop—gather eggs, carry out the feed, clean—and then someone has to take care of Ewka—the horse out back. She hasn't been fed or bathed yet. Then, we have to prepare dinner, and that means someone has to peel the potatoes and cook the pork."

Alfred swallows carefully around the stone in his throat and plasters a strained smile onto his face. "Oh, right, of course! Yeah! That's great! I was just kidding earlier about going inside. Ha-ha! I know there's tons of stuff to do. S-So let's get going!"

It is, quite possibly, the longest day of his young life.

* * *

Five o'clock on Sunday afternoon—that's when Arthur arrives to retrieve him. As soon as his car comes gliding down the gritty road, Alfred drops the sponge he's been using to scrub the stove and dashes outside, crashing into Arthur as soon as the man is out of the driver's seat and standing upright. He wraps his arms around his caretaker's waist and drops to his knees, beyond relieved to finally see him.

"You're back! I want to go home," he begs, bright blue eyes gazing up at Arthur with urgency. "Please, please, please take me home."

Biting back an amused smirk, Arthur cautiously pats Alfred's shoulder in a conciliatory manner and clears his throat. "What's wrong? You didn't enjoy your stay?"

"Everything _hurts_ ," Alfred complains. All of the fibers in his body seem to have been set on fire. "I wanna leave."

"But I thought this is where you always wanted to be—living off the land, admiring a spacious landscape, laboring in the fields…"

He knows where this is going, and he can hear the triumph in Arthur's tone. He lowers his head and frowns at the grass, hating to have to admit to being wrong. "Yeah, well, I can change my mind, right?"

Arthur's hand moves to his head and ruffles his unruly hair affectionately. And, admittedly, it's nice to be comforted and coddled after working nearly endlessly for over twenty-four hours. "Yes, I suppose so. We've learned something today, haven't we?"

"You tricked me," Alfred huffs, rising to his feet. "That's not fair."

"I didn't trick you. I merely showed you an unpleasant reality."

"It's the same thing."

Arthur doesn't hide his wry smile this time. He wanders off for a minute to thank Feliks for his "splendid hospitality" and, eventually, gets Alfred to personally thank him as well. Then, Arthur decides he has tormented the boy enough, and they get in the car, sitting in silence for a couple of heavy seconds until the engine rumbles awake.

"I'm sure you're enthusiastic about school tomorrow," Arthur murmurs, still smiling in an unsettling way. "And then, afterwards, you'll be helping Ms. Hedervary in her garden."

Alfred glares. "What? Why?"

"It's part of your punishment, of course."

"I thought being on the farm was my punishment."

"Yes, but that was only the first phase."

"You can't just keeping adding stuff on!" Alfred shouts, striking an arm out in front of him in disbelief. He's exhausted, sore, and in a horrid mood, which isn't proving to be a good combination.

Arthur's smile finally fades, and he says, quite firmly, "Your punishment will continue for as long as I see fit. Besides, it will do you some good to help out in the community. Elizabeta hasn't been feeling all that well as of late, and she could use a young gentleman to help her get back on her feet."

"What's wrong with her?"

"There was a death in the family—her aunt, if I recall correctly. I've already sent condolences on behalf of both of us, but she's understandably upset and still grieving. I want you to be very respectful, treat her plants with the utmost care, and make sure she has anything else she might need, all right?"

"Fine."

"Unless you want to return to Feliks and—"

"No, no, no!" Alfred insists, his voice going up by two octaves. Watering some flowers and pulling weeds is nothing compared to milking Old Magdalena, surely? "I'll help Ms. Hedervary."

"Excellent. Now remember, your behavior reflects on me as well. You're old enough now to be trusted with this kind of responsibility. If you ever want to be treated like an adult and respected by those around you, you must…"

It's the same lecture he's heard at least five times, and so, Alfred lets his eyes fall shut for a moment, intending to rest his stinging pupils, but the heaviness of sleep becomes too much to bear, and the last thing he hears is Arthur prattling on about strong morals and how abiding by one's word builds decent character.

* * *

School isn't so bad now that he gets to suffer through it with Toris. Fortunately, they have both acknowledged they're in this cesspool together and that makes all the difference in the world. Most of the school day consists of them coming up with crude jokes about their teachers or groaning and moaning about their ridiculous assignments. Now and then, they even manage to get some studying done together, but it often proves to be ineffective because they're both too easily distracted to get much work done.

Alfred finds it best not to think about school too much once his classes are over lest he starts making himself unnecessarily anxious over it. Funnily enough, tending to Ms. Hedervary's garden turns out to be a good way to clear his mind, and it gets most of the jitters out of his nerves after having to sit in a desk for the majority of his day. Arthur tells him he'll be a plant-sitter for two weeks, and he whines briefly about it just to assure the man that the punishment is working and that he's miserable.

The garden is small and relatively simple to manage, but the autumn air is starting to take its toll on the vibrancy of the plants. Soon, they will wilt, and no amount of trimming and watering will do them any good.

Normally, fixing up the garden takes no more than forty-five minutes. Then, he usually asks Ms. Hedervary if she needs help with anything else like doing the dishes or polishing the silverware. She never keeps him around for more than an hour and a half, for which Alfred is grateful.

That being said, the work proves to be interesting, mostly because Alfred learns more about Ms. Hedervary than he ever thought could be possible. The first shock comes on his first day of gardening, when he shows up at the woman's door with his hands behind his back, not knowing what to say but expected to say something.

"Hi, Ms. Hedervary. I'm sorry for your loss."

She blinks at him with grayish-green eyes, dabs at her cheek with a handkerchief, and insists, "Oh, don't worry yourself over it. I wasn't close to the damned hag anyway."

He's stunned, to say the least. If she doesn't care what happened to her aunt, why is she so upset? And why does he have to help her if she clearly doesn't need it?

But then, he realizes that Ms. Hedervary is, in fact, in a fragile state of mind, just not for the reasons he'd previously thought. The real reason for her being upset, he discovers, is due to a single individual who has been courting her extensively over the past week.

He witnesses this firsthand on his third day. He's caring for some pink tulips when someone comes strolling down the road, whistling a familiar tune and carrying a newspaper.

"Hey, Gilbert," Alfred greets him, thinking the man is just passing by.

" _Hallo_ , squirt. What're you doing here?"

"Just helping Ms. Hedervary with some—"

"OUT, OUT! GET OUT!" Ms. Hedervary suddenly screams wildly, bursting out of the house with a dishtowel in her hand, purple with rage. "GILBERT BEILSCHMIDT, YOU ARE A VILE CREATION OF GOD."

"Well, it's a good thing I don't believe in him, huh?" Gilbert jokes with an air of what seems to be regret. "Lizzie, please…"

"I'VE TOLD YOU TO LEAVE ME ALONE!"

Alfred doesn't know what the man has done to make her so livid, but he's not sure he wants to know anyway. Chances are it's an offense that's childish and/or foolhardy and only something Gilbert could be guilty of committing. He's always seen Ms. Hedervary in such a docile and friendly mood that witnessing her act demented and maddened with fury is downright disturbing.

"I wanted to say—"

"No, I don't want to hear a single word from you! Leave!"

"You see, this is the problem with women! You come to them with open arms and want to clear up any misunderstandings, and what do they do? They shout at you like they would at a dog!" Gilbert snarls, a tight scowl on his face. When he sees that his remark isn't garnering any attention from Ms. Hedervary, he whirls around and looks at Alfred, lips pinched together. "Don't get involved with ladies, kid. They're completely insane—all of them!"

Alfred forces his smile into a frown and tries to look serious. The last thing he wants is to make the man even angrier by laughing at his outburst. Ms. Hedervary, meanwhile, has already retreated into the house.

Gilbert sticks a cigarette in his mouth and bites down hard on the filtered part of it as he lights it, fingers trembling. "How much longer do you have to do this for?"

"Eleven days," he replies, sprinkling some water onto the tulips, taking extra care to make sure he doesn't accidentally drown them.

"Hmph," Gilbert snorts, taking a long drag of the cigarette and releasing a puff of smoke with a relaxed, _whooshing_ sound. "Sorry, squirt. Arthur has been tough on you lately, huh?"

He thinks the question over and sighs, "Why can't you adopt me? Then you could let me work at _Beilschmidt's Sweets_ , and I wouldn't have to go to school or eat Arthur's food."

"Oh, don't say stuff like that," Gilbert mutters quickly, taken aback by the sheer suggestion. "I'd be a bad father, and besides, Arthur takes way better care of you than I ever could. No offense, but munchkins aren't for me, y'know? I'm not that type of person."

"But I'm not a little kid anymore."

"Sure you are," Gilbert jibes, tapping excess ash off of the end of his cigarette and onto the sidewalk. "To me, you'll always be an annoying baby."

"Hey!"

"The truth hurts sometimes," the man adds as his obnoxious grin fades. He takes another look at the humble house and the array of tulips Alfred is crouching over, draws his unbuttoned coat closer to his body, and lets out a long, painful breath. "I'm outta here. Looks like I'm not welcome anyway."

However, none of this knowledge seems to deter the man because the next day, he returns with just as much passion and vigor as the day before. When his second attempt at getting Ms. Hedervary to speak to him fails, he tries again on the following day, and then the day after, and so on.

In fact, he visits the property on each of the eleven days of Alfred's punishment, and each time, Ms. Hedervary shouts vulgarities at him and kicks him out of the front yard with unquenchable acrimony.

On the last day, right when Alfred is collecting his bag of schoolbooks and preparing to leave the garden, Gilbert stares at him intently from the other side of the small, chain-link fence and asks, "Is she doing all right? Elizabeta, I mean… That's all I want to know. Does she seem happy?"

There's a desperate, despairing look in the man's eyes, and it dawns upon Alfred that he will have to lie to him because saying anything else will be lead to catastrophic results.

He stretches a smile onto his face and nods, struggling to look Gilbert in the face as he says, "Yeah, she's great! She's sewing a lot, playing with Budapest, and I think she said she's having some old friends come over to visit her in a week."

The part about the old friends is true, and although Gilbert is momentarily placated, he immediately jumps to more questions.

"Which friends? Did she tell you? Any guy friends?"

"I don't know. She didn't say."

"Oh… Okay," Gilbert concedes, fumbling around nervously for another cigarette. He slaps Alfred on the back and grunts, "Tell Arthur I said _hallo_ and that the mailman screwed up our packages again. If he wants his copy of _Cakes and Ale_ , he's going to have to come over and get it."

"I'll let him know."

Gilbert runs his tongue over his teeth and nods, "Good, good. If you talk to Elizabeta again, can you tell her—tell her I'd really like it if we could… Never mind. Forget it."

The man hurries off and turns the corner, and when he's gone, Alfred is left with a sinking, cold feeling in his stomach as though he knows something isn't right. He decides to tell Arthur about it when he gets home, and it's a good thing he does.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note:** I survived finals week! Here's a chapter to celebrate. Let me know what you think!

* * *

"No, I haven't seen him since this morning. Why? Is something wrong?"

It's ten o'clock at night when Arthur gets a call from a distraught and frantic Ludwig, asking whether or not anyone has seen his brother because he left to buy some coffee in the early evening and never returned.

Alfred is standing close enough to the phone on the wall to hear Ludwig's urgent tone on the other line as well as a quick, succinct stream of German curses that he's pretty sure Arthur wouldn't want him to parrot around the house.

"I'll call if I hear anything… Don't panic, you know how Gilbert can be sometimes."

It's a school night, which means Alfred should be heading off to sleep, but how can he possibly be expected to snooze when there's such an affair going on?

But apparently, Arthur _does_ expect him to do the impossible because as soon as he hangs up the phone, he gives him a stern look and points a finger toward the stairs.

"Bed, now," he declares.

"What about Uncle Gil—?"

"You can let me worry about that. I'm sure he'll turn up in a little while. I'll never be able to wake you up tomorrow morning if you don't get your rest."

Alfred makes sure to show Arthur how sad and miserable he is as a result of the decision, but he climbs up the steps anyway, dragging his feet along in a show of despair. When he reaches his room, he plops into bed and rolls over onto his stomach, gazing up at the window behind the headboard. The dreary lampposts are the only source of light outside, casting shadows on the road. Everything is still and quiet, aside from the crickets having a fiesta in the grass.

He fluffs his pillow and is just about to get comfortable when his eyes latch onto the movement of a figure crossing the street. It's a person—albeit a wobbling and disoriented person. Alfred can't make out their face or what they're wearing, but he doesn't need any more information to spring into action. Within a second, he's soaring out into the hallway screaming, "Robber, robber, robber!"

He hears the sound of something being dropped in the living room, and then Arthur is at the base of the stairs, perturbed and on edge. Alfred crashes into his chest, wrapping his arms around the man's waist tightly.

Instantly, Arthur's protective hand is on his head. "Why on earth are you shrieking like a banshee?"

"Don't go outside! There's a robber," Alfred says in a harsh whisper. "This is why you should've gotten me a gun for my birthday."

Arthur lets his hand fall back to his side and rolls his eyes. "Calm down, will you? I'll have a look."

"No!"

"Shh!" Arthur hisses, carefully peeling back one of the curtains in the living room to look out the window. Sure enough, the person is still staggering and stumbling about aimlessly in the moonlight. Then, fearlessly, Arthur sweeps up to the front door and unlocks it before telling Alfred firmly, "Stay inside."

"Are you crazy? Don't go out there! You'll get hurt," Alfred beseeches, too tense to stay standing in one place for too long. He can already picture a battered and bruised Arthur hobbling his way back to the house, and the mere thought of his caretaker being in such danger makes his eyes burn. "Stay!"

"Relax, everything's going to be all right."

His stomach does a sick somersault as Arthur wanders out into the darkness, and the closer he gets to the figure, the more Alfred feels like he's going to faint from the anticipation. When he can take it no longer, he summons his brash bravery and dashes out into the darkness as well, planning to be Arthur's sidekick if need be.

Thankfully, that need never presents itself because by the time the two of them reach the mysterious figure, it becomes very clear that the person is not, in fact, any sort of criminal or fugitive. At least, not in a way that threatens anyone else.

Arthur reaches the person first and says, "Why am I not surprised you're here? Ludwig is beside himself with worry."

Under the dim light, Alfred can just make out Gilbert's light hair and broad shoulders. He is stooped over and clutching his abdomen, and before he attempts to respond to Arthur, he falls to his knees and throws himself onto his back, lying in the center of the road with his limbs spread out like a starfish.

Arthur doesn't seem amused. "What _are_ you doing?"

Gilbert's sharp, slightly hoarse voice finally fills the air. "I'm going to wait here until a car comes and runs me over."

"Gilbert, it's the middle of the night, and we're in the very heart of the suburbs. A car isn't likely to pass through here for another eight hours."

"I'll wait eight hours, then."

Alfred tries not to laugh as Arthur lets out a frustrated growl and peels the man off of the pavement with an unrelenting yank. By some miraculous feat, Gilbert is brought to a standing position once more, but Arthur has to steady him when he almost trips over himself.

Alfred is old enough now to know what is going on here. It's quite clear that Gilbert is unequivocally, raging drunk. If a police officer happens to wander by, the man could very well be arrested, and the penalties for drinking nowadays are severe. There are, however, a few speakeasies in town that have not yet been discovered (Alfred has heard the stories from others at school), and that's where Gilbert has probably been hiding away for so many hours.

"Come on, you sodding idiot. If someone sees you like this—"

"Where's Elizabeta?" Gilbert hiccups, clawing at Arthur's sweater. "I n-need to tell her I'm sorry."

"You can tell her in the morning. I'll walk you home."

It's becoming increasingly apparent, however, that Gilbert is in no state to make the journey home like this, and so, Arthur steers him toward their house instead. After much pushing and pulling, they make it to the foyer without suffering any injuries, and Alfred watches them with growing interest, feeling a little sad for a reason he can't describe. Looking at Gilbert hurts, and it reminds him of New York—the sunken faces and bulging eyes of the workers from the textile factory and the chilling hopelessness on their faces. It reminds him how wanting something doesn't mean you'll get it, no matter how hard you try. Sometimes, the boot is on your neck before you even start the race.

Arthur brings Gilbert to the couch and takes his shoes off for him, ignoring any shrill noises of complaint. Then, he tosses a quilt from the storage closet over his waist and brings the man a tall glass of water, seemingly forgetting Alfred's presence for the moment. He takes a seat on the arm of couch closest to Gilbert's head and says, "You idiot… She's just hurt and wants to forget. Give her time. You're scaring everyone. Praying a car will run you over isn't going to solve anything. Though she is loath to admit it, she wouldn't want you to injure yourself."

"Ughhh," Gilbert moans, tugging at his own hair. If he hears anything of what's being said to him, he doesn't show it.

"Don't vomit on my carpet," Arthur warns. He sticks out a leg, hooks his foot around the waste bin a half a meter or so away, and drags it over to the edge of the couch. "Kindly keep all of your body fluids in there. If you need anything during the night, I'll be upstairs. I'll check in on you later. Now if you don't mind, I need to lecture Alfred about the importance of sleep again."

From his spot by the doorway, Alfred smiles wryly. He watches as Arthur rises, swipes a bit of lint off of his trousers, and approaches him. He looks surprisingly calm and composed, as though it's completely normal for him to have a drunken friend drool and slobber all over his couch on a weekday at a quarter to eleven o'clock. In the face of unanticipated chaos and disorder, he is completely fine and ready for one last cup of tea before turning in for the night.

"Well, then," he murmurs, green eyes warm. "Would you like me to tuck you in?"

"I'm not a little kid anymore," Alfred huffs, following the man up the steps. He has become incredibly prideful in recent years, and he has a sneaking suspicion that it's because his stubborn ol' caretaker is rubbing off on him. "Maybe just tonight though…"

* * *

 _Mr. Arthur Kirkland,_

 _Yes, we have received your eighth inquiry regarding the residential status of Matthew Jones. As you may know, many children have been in and out of the doors of this facility over the last two decades, and, admittedly, the maintenance of the records of these children has not always been a priority, especially since the start of the economic downturn. If the documentation of Matthew Jones has not been updated or filed properly, it is as though he never existed in the eyes of this institution._

 _We apologize for being unable to offer you any further assistance in this matter, but this is the current state of our foster-care system, of which we have little control over._

 _Sincerest sympathies,_

 _The Children's Aid_

"Whatcha got there, kid?"

Alfred lets the letter fall from his hands and onto the kitchen table before looking up at Gilbert (who is nursing a hangover and has already taken the maximum daily recommended dose of aspirin). Hastily, he stuffs the letter back into its envelope and hides his hands behind his back. "Nothing!"

It's the morning after the whole drunken fiasco, and Gilbert is staying over for breakfast against his will because Arthur insistedhe have a bite to eat before leaving.

"Ahh, you're snooping? Don't worry. My lips are sealed."

Alfred sighs and takes his place at the end of the table, head bowed. Still no luck with finding Mattie then. "It's not even a big deal."

"If you say so."

It's then that Arthur returns from the bathroom, dressed for work in his freshly cleaned suit and tie. He's going to be absent for the majority of yet another weekend, but Alfred can't even find the energy in himself to be disappointed.

Arthur's scrambled eggs today are semi-crispy but very edible, and Alfred doesn't realize quite how much he's enjoying them until his plate is sparkling white and empty.

"The emergency number to the firm is on my desk, Alfred."

He's already memorized it. "I know."

"I'll be back for dinner. If you go out, don't leave the front yard."

"I won't."

When will the man stop treating him like a baby? Is it too much to ask for more freedom every now and then?

Arthur and Gilbert leave together, and Alfred sees them off. Once they're gone, he supposes some air would do him good and sits by the small tree in the front yard, watching the clouds morph into interesting shapes.

It gets boring after a while, and just as he thinks he should go and get his soccer ball from inside, he spots Francis trotting along the road with two handfuls of grocery bags.

Launching into action, Alfred crosses the street and joins him. "Do you need any help?"

"Oh, Alfred, _mon lapin_ ," Francis greets him cheerfully. "That would be _magnifique_ , thank-you! My old bones don't have the strength they used to, you know."

"You're not old."

"Ah, you're too kind. When did you become such a charming gentleman? Stay this way forever. Nothing good comes from age."

"But I thought wisdom comes with age."

Francis barks with laughter and nearly drops a batch of tomatoes as he unlocks the door to his house. "I'd rather be young and thoughtless, honestly. By the way, how is Gilbert doing? Has he recovered from his unrequited love yet?"

Alfred frowns, rounds the corner into Francis's kitchen, and deposits a bag of bread and cheese on the counter. "He's really sad... Why is Ms. Hedervary so angry with him anyway?"

"Mmm… Gilbert shouldn't be opening old wounds. There's a lot of pain between them, which is to be expected."

"But what happened?"

"It's not my place to say."

"I won't tell."

Francis smirks and ruffles Alfred's hair. "A _nosy_ gentleman, too, hmm?" He doesn't look like he wants to say anything else, but his loose-lipped nature gets the best of him. It's his fatal flaw; he's a gossip at heart. "Gilbert is fighting his demons as we speak. Demons which he could ignore until now."

"Why can't he ignore them anymore?"

"Because you came along."

"Me?" Alfred splutters, head spinning in confusion as he tries to keep up.

"Yes, you. His daughter would have been only a few years younger than you by now."

" _Daughter_?"

Francis clicks his tongue and berates himself for saying too much, but it's too late. He jumps into the tale with feverish and full-fledged gusto. "Years ago, when Gilbert was barely older than a boy and still very naïve, he was supposed to have a child with Elizabeta. Of course, it was out of wedlock and very much scorned upon by everyone who knew of it. Nonetheless, they planned to have the child and get married afterward."

"However, the child turned out to be sick. Going through with the delivery would have put Elizabeta's life at risk. She wasn't in a condition to make any medical decisions, so it was Gilbert's choice—Elizabeta or the child. A child, which, may not have survived either way. Well, you can imagine what happened next… It's a decision, I think, that haunts him to this day. Elizabeta, poor girl, couldn't bear it, and they separated. She had plans to leave town, but then the crash happened and she couldn't afford to go."

"I think that when he sees you with Arthur, he wonders what things could have been like. Of course, he still loves Elizabeta dearly, but he's been pressuring her to rekindle their relationship ever since he met you, and she simply wants to move on," Francis finishes, setting the kettle on for tea. "That is why she is upset."

Alfred slumps his shoulders and feels a wave of pity crash against his ribcage. "But it's not his fault. He did what he thought was good, right?"

"You won't realize this until you're much older, _mon chou_ , but there's nothing, _nothing_ , a parent wouldn't do to protect the life of their child, especially a mother. It's very difficult to recover from such loss. One hopes they will both heal, but it is a very splintered relationship. They've been bickering for years."

"But shouldn't they work it out together? I mean, if I lost someone, I wouldn't want to be alone."

"Try explaining that to two very stubborn people," Francis sighs, running a hand over his chin.

"Do you think they'll ever get back together?"

"I have doubts."

Three years. Three years since he started living here and Alfred finally knows the truth about Gilbert and what he's been so eager to hide. And now that he knows, he can't stop the gaping hole of sorrow from growing in his chest.

"Please don't say anything about it."

"I won't… Not about serious stuff like that," Alfred promises.

He spends the rest of the day at home.

* * *

"How do you think you did on that test?"

"Bad," Alfred grumbles as he walks along the bank of a little river with Toris not too far from school. It's beginning to get colder again as autumn moves in and makes itself comfortable, so they're trying to enjoy the last, few, beautiful days they can salvage. "How about you?"

"Also bad."

"How are you going to get your dad to sign it if you failed?"

"I haven't come up with a plan yet," Toris admits, throwing a pebble into the water. "Maybe I'll just tell him I never got it back."

Alfred shakes his head and kicks off his shoes so he can dip his toes into the gentle, rushing inflow. "Nah, that won't work. Your dad will call my dad, and they'll figure it out."

They travel downstream at a leisurely pace. It's relatively quiet and peaceful, but they know not to get too close to the mouth of the stream because that's where the strange men are—the drifters. Most of them are just ordinary people who have had horrible luck since the start of the depression, but there are a few who aren't friendly, and both Alfred and Toris have been scolded more than once for trying to speak to them.

"Don't bother those poor people. They've been through enough, and the last thing they need is to listen to your grating list of questions," Alfred remembers Arthur telling him on one such occasion.

But Alfred used to be like them, too, and he doesn't need to be told to leave them alone because he understands what it's like to not want to be seen by anyone. He knows how even if you want to ask for help, you won't because you don't want to seem like another beggar. Some men would rather die with a sense of honor than to live with a feeling of shame.

"Hey, if you were old enough to vote, who would you vote for?" Toris asks him out of the blue.

Alfred thinks back to all of the conversations he's had with Arthur regarding the upcoming election and says, "Franklin Roosevelt."

Toris nods and seems satisfied with the answer. "Yeah, that's who Dad's voting for… Do you think things will get better with him as president?"

"Maybe."

"Yeah…"

Toris picks up another rock to toss into the river, except as he reaches down, an orange creature shoots forward from underneath a boulder and snaps at his ankle. He lets out a fearful shout, and Alfred runs over to save him, chasing off the thing with a loud hissing noise and some raucous stomping.

"It's okay. It was a copperhead snake. Did it bite you?" Alfred asks once the creature slithers away once more. "They're not so bad, I promise. You'll be okay."

He crouches down to have a look at Toris's ankle, and sure enough, there are two angry, round teeth marks embedded into his skin. He lets out a long breath and gives Toris a reassuring smile, staying calm despite the fact that Toris looks like he's going to start hyperventilating.

"Let's go find your dad," Alfred decides, wrapping an arm around Toris's shoulders and walking him upstream because the boy is too stunned to move without a little encouragement. "It was just a copperhead. People get bitten by them all the time."

White as a sheet, Toris gives him a sideways glance and asks, "Am I going to die?"

"No. Nobody dies from copperhead bites. I read about them for a project we did in Mr. Honda's class that one time, remember?"

"Are they poisonous?"

"Barely," Alfred assures, but 'barely' doesn't go over well with Toris and he starts breathing rapidly again, panicked. "Your dad will know what to do."

"It hurts."

"Well, yeah, it's gonna hurt, but that doesn't mean you're gonna die."

Toris blinks at him as though he's said something completely profound and murmurs, "It hurts _a lot_."

"We won't go back to that river again, okay?"

It's quite the walk, but they cover the distance rather quickly, and once they get to Toris's house, Alfred inwardly prays that Ivan is home, because if he isn't, they're going to have to go on a wild goose chase around the town for him.

Fortunately, however, he isn't attending to any patients, and the door to the house swings open, revealing the tall Russian man with a grim expression on his face.

"What happened?" he asks, immediately reaching out to embrace Toris with one arm. "Toris, say something."

"A copperhead snake bit him," Alfred informs, pushing Toris lightly to walk further into the house. "He thinks he's going to die."

Somewhat relieved, Ivan laughs warmly and directs Toris into the bathroom. He gets him to sit on the counter while he pulls up a stool to elevate the ankle in question and have a better look at it. "I need to clean out the wound. It's going to burn a little," he warns before pressing a washcloth with disinfectant onto the injury.

Toris, of course, lets out a whimper of complaint. Alfred squeezes his shoulder for moral support, and it seems to help.

"Copperheads are common," Ivan states before rummaging around through the medicine cabinet.

Alfred lifts a brow and gives Toris a smug grin. "That's what I told him."

"I'll be back in a minute, little ones. I need to get something from the refrigerator. Nobody move."

Alfred tries to keep Toris as calm as he can and says, "See? It's gonna be fine."

"Thanks for chasing it away," Toris says weakly, now exhausted from the commotion.

"You know I always have your back. You're my best friend."

"Really?"

"Really!"

Ivan returns with a little vial and a syringe, and Alfred takes a few steps back, suddenly uneasy as well.

"Hold still, Toris. This is the anti-venom. You're not the first person to get bitten," Ivan remarks, pulling up the boy's sleeve and giving him the shot in one of the veins in the crook of his arm. "Now we just have to put a bandage over the bite and keep it clean."

When he's finished being treated, Toris hops down from the bathroom counter and asks, "Can Alfred stay over for dinner?"

Ivan smiles and says, "Alfred is always welcome here, but I need to make sure it's okay with Arthur first."

Looking much more like himself, Toris grabs Alfred by the wrist and leads him to his room. "C'mon, I've got this new board game I want to try out."

"Wait, before you two go—" Ivan calls out, following them into the hallway.

Alfred turns around and tilts his head to the side, noticing the odd look in Ivan's eyes. If he's not mistaken, it's gratitude.

"You were a good boy to bring Toris home. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Alfred says with a bright smile, wondering when he stopped being so afraid of Ivan and started seeing him as a friend.

* * *

There are lots of broken people in this town. It's not noticeable at first, but it's still there, like a scar hiding just beneath the surface. It's time he did something about it.

While Arthur is inside cooking dinner one day, Alfred takes his soccer ball and sits by the garden, waiting. He waits and waits, knowing that after enough waiting he'll be rewarded, because the person he's looking for always takes the same route around this time, and there's no way he can miss him.

Soon enough, a figure with a sturdy gait comes marching by.

"Hey, Gilbert!" Alfred shouts to him, loud enough to be heard.

Gilbert turns to him and gives him a brief wave of acknowledgement, not stopping his stroll. " _Hallo_ , kid."

"Wanna play soccer with me?"

At that, the man pauses and looks at him with furrowed brows. "What?"

"Do you want to play soccer with me?" Alfred repeats himself, being more clear the second time. "I don't have anyone to play with, and I'm bored just waiting around for Arthur to finish dinner."

"It's not my job to entertain you," Gilbert huffs, although there isn't any bitterness laced in his words.

"Come on, _please_? Please, please, please."

"All right, all right! _Mein Gott_ , kids today are so demanding and entitled!"

Once they start to play, Alfred can tell that Gilbert hasn't played soccer for a very long time because he's so eager and enthusiastic that he beats Alfred over and over again with increasing animation, striking multiple goals at the 'net,' which is really just a line of sidewalk chalk drawn on the fence to mark the approximate width of an actual net. He's never heard the man laugh so hard and for so long.

Once or twice, Alfred sees a curious Arthur peek his head out of the kitchen window to find out what they're up to, but he doesn't interrupt them nor does he stay long enough to be seen by Gilbert.

That is, until it's time to eat.

"Alfred, that's enough for tonight. The food is getting cold," Arthur announces when he can prolong the match no longer.

Gilbert smirks and pats the side of Alfred's head fondly. "Good game, kid. Now go stuff your face."

Alfred picks up his ball and gives Gilbert a high-five as he leaves, sweating and red-face but overjoyed nonetheless. He slogs his way into the house, peels off his dirty sneakers, brings the ball up to his room, and washes his hands before returning downstairs to the kitchen table, where Arthur is patiently waiting for him.

The food is already set out, and when Alfred sits down, he realizes that Arthur has been staring at him for a good minute or so.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Arthur tries to hide his smile and shifts his attention to his plate. "Oh, it's nothing, my boy."

But it's not nothing because Alfred is suddenly smiling, too.


	12. Chapter 12

"How much did you get?"

"A fifty, and you?"

"Forty," Alfred grumbles, staring down at his failing math score from his most recent test. He knew this was coming, and yet, that doesn't make the situation any easier to deal with. "Arthur's going to make me eat liverwurst and blood pudding for three days when he sees this."

Toris makes a sympathetic noise and clicks his tongue. "This bites."

"Maybe our teacher won't say anything if we don't get it signed. Maybe he'll forget."

"I don't think that'll happen. Besides, he's going to remember because this means we can't go on the trip."

"The trip?"

Alfred smacks a hand against his forehead and lets out an abject moan. He'd almost forgotten. The class is scheduled to go on a trip to a memorial ground and museum for the soldiers lost in the Great War next Wednesday, which excuses them from their normal lessons. A failing grade, however, means that he and Toris will be exempt from going.

Which is really quite unfortunate because they'd both taken the liberty of having their permission slips signed already, and now it's going to be twice as difficult to show their math tests to their parents because they'll also have to explain the fiasco with the trip.

"So, what're we going to do now?" Toris asks, wringing his hands nervously. "Maybe we should just tell them as soon as we get home today. That way, we'll just get it over with, and they won't be too angry because we'll at least have told them the truth."

Alfred scoffs and shakes his head at once, absolutely disgusted with the mere idea. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! We're not going down that easily! We have to at least _try_ to cover this up. Come on, Toris. Haven't I taught you anything?"

"I don't know, Al. This doesn't sound like a good—"

"Trust me on this. I'll come up with something and let you know the game plan, okay?"

Toris chews on his bottom lip and clutches his stomach like he always does when he's anxious or uncertain about something. It's almost as though he has a physical aversion to mischief and disobedience. The poor boy has never given himself the opportunity to get a proper scolding, and what kind of a life is that? "Okay, I guess…"

"I kinda know what Arthur's signature looks like," Alfred suddenly says, recalling the curves and slant of the man's penmanship. "We can sign the tests for them."

"That's the worst idea ever."

"Is not!"

"Is, too!"

"Well, do you have any better ideas? Forget it. Just tell your dad then if you're too chicken. I have to go home, but I'll see you before class tomorrow," Alfred says somewhat sharply before heading off in the direction of the house, test paper already stuffed into the bottom of his bag.

* * *

It's an accident.

He doesn't mean to see the letter, but there it is, just sitting innocently on top of Arthur's desk in the study, practically calling Alfred to come and take a look at it. He knows snooping is wrong. He knows that if the information were meant for him, Arthur would let him know, and yet, he still sneaks into the study while Arthur is on the phone downstairs because it's so tempting.

The letter is tucked beneath one of Arthur's leather-bound encyclopedias, but it still manages to stick out like a sore thumb to Alfred because he recognizes the type of paper it has been printed on, as well as the specific pattern of the stationery.

Carefully, he slides it from underneath the book, adjusts his glasses, and narrows his eyes to read it.

 _Mr. Arthur Kirkland,_

 _This is a follow-up response to an inquiry made several weeks ago. A new record indicates that a Matthew Jones, aged 13, currently resides at:_

 _6000 Bell Avenue_

 _Chicago, IL_

 _Please note that we cannot confirm the accuracy of this information._

 _-The Children's Aid_

An address! This is it! He might finally be able to find Matthew after being separated for four whole years. He wishes Arthur would've shared this with him, and for a moment, a burst of hot-red anger pops in his chest and makes him want to scream. How could Arthur hide something like this from him? This might be his chance to find Matthew once and for all, and what does Arthur do? He stows the letter under a damned encyclopedia.

Well, if he's going to be so secretive about all of this, then perhaps Alfred should just go out looking for Matthew himself. He could go to Chicago and check out this address and see if Mattie really is there. After all, Arthur doesn't seem too eager to begin the search himself, and who needs him? He's big enough to make the trip on his own, surely.

And then, a genius idea strikes him. The _trip_.

He folds the letter into a square and stuffs it into his pocket before racing down the stairs and to the front door, barely managing to get out a "I'm going to Toris' house!" to Arthur before he heads outside and sprints across town. His heart feels like it's beating a million beats per minute, and by the time he makes it to Toris' place, he's completely out of breath.

Ivan answers the door, as expected. "Alfred? Why do you look so tired?"

"C-Can Toris come out and talk for a minute? It's really important."

Although Ivan seems to have the urge to question Alfred's motives, he decides to let the matter rest for now and instead calls for Toris to come on over. When the boy is in sight, Ivan retreats back into the house and gives them space to talk in private, for which Alfred is immensely grateful.

"What's going on?" Toris asks, a little frightened and taken aback by how exhausted Alfred looks. "Did you run here?"

"Yeah, I have something really, really, super important to ask you," Alfred pants, leaning one hand on the doorway to recover. "Do you think of me as your best friend?"

"Yeah, why—?"

"And you would do anything to help me, right? Cause that's what friends do, and I'd do the same for you."

"Well, yeah… Where are you going with this?"

Alfred clears his throat and says, firmly, "Chicago."

"What?"

"We're going to Chicago," he whispers, checking to make sure Ivan isn't around to hear. "Our parents will think we're going on the trip, but we're actually going to Chicago."

"But I don't want to go to Chicago!" Toris whispers back, sounding completely exasperated. "What's there for us to do in Chicago anyway?"

"Mattie, my brother, might be in Chicago, and I want to find him."

" _Oh_."

"So are you coming or not?"

Toris looks down at his feet and ponders everything. Alfred can tell he's put the boy in an extremely uncomfortable situation, but he's assured that the impromptu trip to Chicago will be good for both of them. He'll be able to find Matthew, and Toris might be able to break out of his shell a little. An adventure every now and then can't be bad, especially if it's for a well-intentioned cause.

"How are we going to get there?"

"We can take a train. I know how where the railroad is because I was taken to the station in Chicago before they brought me here on the Children's Aid train. We can take the money our parents will give us for food and souvenirs and use it for train tickets instead," Alfred says, coming up with the details as he goes along. It's all being pieced together. This must be fate. Never again will such a perfect opportunity arise, he's sure of it.

"O-Okay, I'll do it, but only because I want you to find Matthew, too."

At his willingness to help, Alfred suddenly is overcome with guilt. What gives him the right to boss Toris around and risk getting him into trouble? He shouldn't make him do anything he's not happy with. "On second thought, don't feel like you _have_ to do this. I was just excited, but I know it's not an easy thing to just sneak out like this, and—"

"I want to do it," Toris replies with conviction.

"But we're probably going to get into trouble."

"I know."

Alfred cracks a grin, playfully punches Toris in the shoulder, and is reminded why they've stayed such good friends over the years.

* * *

He doesn't like tricking Arthur like this. It really isn't fair to him, but Alfred doesn't have much of an alternative. He knows the man is going to be furious with him if he finds out. In fact, he may never forgive him, and yet, this is something Alfred knows he must do.

That being said, it's still very hard for him to look Arthur in the eyes on Wednesday morning, especially when he goes to such great lengths to make sure he's well cared for and has everything packed for what he believes to be a school trip.

"You have the money I gave you, yes?"

"Yeah," Alfred murmurs, swallowing heavily. He is queasy with shame. "I'll be okay, I promise."

"I know. Stay with your group and don't get into any trouble. Are you sure you don't want me to walk you to the bus?"

"I'm sure. I don't want you to be late to work."

Arthur nods his head and hugs Alfred tightly, shoulders already taut with worry and concern. He cards a hand through his hair, presses their foreheads together briefly, and then pats him on the back warmly. "All right. You don't want to miss your bus. Remember, if you feel unwell or want to come home for any reason—"

"I'll tell my teacher," Alfred dutifully responds, feeling a strange sting of self-hatred in his heart. "Bye, Arthur."

"Goodbye, my boy. Enjoy yourself. I'll see you tonight when you return."

Oh, if he only knew…

Alfred strains a painstaking smile, picks up his backpack, and trots out the door. When he turns around for a split second, he sees bright green eyes blinking back at him, and he has to press a fist to his mouth to keep from being sick. He _really_ feels downright awful for putting the man through this.

And when he sees the math test on top of everything else…

No, there's no time to think about that right now. He rushes off in the direction of the school and to the meeting place he has arranged with Toris. They're meant to meet at the river and follow it upstream, where the path is well hidden behind thickets of trees, so they won't be seen by any of the townspeople. The walk to the train station is quite long, and the last thing they want is for someone like Gilbert or Mr. Honda to witness their departure.

Toris is already there when Alfred arrives—punctual as always. He's carrying his own knapsack packed to the brim with sandwiches and thermoses of soup because, apparently, his father insisted he bring extra food with him in case the lunch provided at the "museum" is insufficient.

"I've never lied to him like that before," Toris laments, a little jittery and on edge. "What if we get lost? Or we get on the wrong train? Or—?"

Alfred rolls his eyes and squeezes Toris' shoulder. "It's going to be fine. I know where we're going."

It's a thirty minute walk to the train station, which doesn't seem so bad at first, but the trek also includes a tiresome hike up some areas laden with high hills. It doesn't take long for their thighs to start aching and their feet to protest. It is, however, a minor obstacle, and they manage to get to the train station in good time anyway.

They purchase their tickets and get on the ten o'clock train, which arrives in a cacophony of somniferous clanging and is shrouded in a cloud of charcoal smoke, prompt and according to schedule. Boarding is easy enough, and they find a pair of seats by the window without any trouble.

Once they are settled in, a sense of accomplishment and triumph swaddles them. Here they are. They're actually on a train to Chicago, and there's nothing that can stop them now. They're on their own, completely unsupervised and left to fend for themselves. The exhilaration that comes with leaving home for the first time dawns on them, and they can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. For the first time, they feel like men.

You only get to do so much in one life, and by God, Alfred swears he's going to find his brother, even if he has to flip the entire Earth upside-down.

The train grumbles a lazy moan and begins to move, gradually gaining speed until eventually they are racing through fields of grain and wildflowers, the sun beaming merrily against their window.

"I can't believe we're doing this," Toris whispers, clutching his knapsack with both hands.

Alfred nods, lost in thought. "Me neither… Hey, do you think we'll find him?"

"Matthew?"

"Yeah."

"I think there's a chance."

"I think so, too," Alfred readily agrees.

"What's going to happen if you find him?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you going to make him come back with you?"

Alfred frowns. "I don't know. I haven't really thought about it. It'd be up to him, I guess. I just really want to see him to make sure he's okay."

"What if he has a good family, and he wants you to stay with him? Would you move in?" Toris wonders, a curious look in his eyes.

"I don't think Arthur would like that. He'd be sad."

"But maybe your brother is more important."

"But," Alfred falters, "Arthur is important to me, too."

"What if you have to choose?"

"I can't choose something like that."

"But you left Arthur to look for Matthew, so you chose already, right?"

Alfred makes a choked noise of complaint in his throat. "It's not… I didn't leave him _forever_. Just for a day."

Toris shrugs his shoulders and has one of those moments where he acts much older and wiser than he has any right to be. "What difference does it make?"

Alfred wants to argue that there is a difference, and a big one at that, but he gets ridiculously tongue tied against his will and is left to sit back in the tepid silence.

Maybe it's because part of him worries Toris is absolutely right.

* * *

Something is… wrong. Arthur can't quite place his finger on it, but the sense of impending doom in his gut just won't go away, no matter how many times he gets up, takes a good look around the room to make sure everything is in its rightful place, and attempts to calm himself with a sip of tea.

At first, he's tempted to think he's merely being dramatic. This paternal unease in his chest is probably just due to Alfred not being in the house. He's fretting too much. The boy is most likely perfectly fine and having a swell time with his friends on his class trip. After all, he's being well-supervised by chaperones in a controlled environment filled with historical significance and cultural artifacts.

Everything is fine.

The phone is ringing downstairs. Batting away the rest of his concerns, Arthur rushes to answer it. Who would be calling him in the middle of the afternoon? Is there an issue down at the firm?

"Hello?"

"Mr. Kirkland?"

"Yes, how may I help you?"

"I'm calling in regards to Alfred's unexcused absence from school today."

Arthur twists the cord of the phone between his fingers and glowers. "There must be some sort of misunderstanding. Alfred is on a class trip."

"That's impossible. His name was not recorded on the attendance sheet this morning. He never boarded the bus."

And just like that, Arthur's heart somehow manages to plummet to the very bottom of his stomach. "I-I beg your pardon?"

"If he had gone on the trip, his teacher would have marked his name down this morning, Mr. Kirkland."

"I see…"

A knock on the door puts the conversation to a halt, and after promising to call again, Arthur hangs up the phone and goes to tell whoever is on the porch to get lost because he has bigger problems on his hands at the moment.

He doesn't know who he expects to see before him, but it certainly isn't Ivan. His old friend is uncharacteristically disheveled. There are flyaway hairs dancing on one side of his head, his left shoe is untied, and the collar of his white coat is so askew it almost seems deliberate.

"Toris didn't board the bus today," he blurts out before Arthur can even greet him. "I don't know what to do. He could be anywhere! What if something happened? What if someone kidnapped him or—?"

Arthur reaches a hand up to touch the other man's shoulder in an attempt to quiet him. "Alfred has also disappeared."

"So then… They're together? But where could they be?" Ivan says breathlessly, looking horribly pained.

"Alfred has a habit of sneaking off to Gilbert and Ludwig's shop. I'll give them a ring and see if they know anything. Let me just find the phone number…"

Hastily, Arthur climbs back up the steps and jogs to his study, clearing books from his desk as he searches for the number to _Beilschmidt Sweets_. He reaches for his encyclopedia to move it aside, and that's when it dawns upon him that the letter from the Children's Aid is missing. He makes sure it hasn't fallen somewhere on the floor, and when he's positive there's no trace of it, he returns to Ivan, a woebegone expression on his face.

"I daresay I know where they are. We need to leave for Chicago right now."

"Chicago?" Ivan asks, disbelief lacing his voice.

"I'll explain on our way there."

Arthur grabs his coat and leads the way, hurriedly locking the door before making a beeline for his car.

"Wait!" Ivan stops him. "It might be faster if we take the train."

"Faster if you take the train to where?" a voice asks. Francis comes strolling out of his house, arms folded over his chest as he approaches the pair, curious as always.

Arthur groans and rubs a hand over his forehead. He really doesn't need the man meddling in this. "I don't have time for your monotonous drivel today, Francis."

"The boys are missing," Ivan supplies, stressing the severity of the situation so as to prevent a fight from breaking out between the men.

"Alfred and Toris? Missing? Then I'm coming with you," Francis insists.

"Oh, no, you are _not_."

Ivan puts a hand on Arthur's arm and says, "Let him come. The bigger the search party, the better."

" _Fine_ , you can come."

" _Fantastique!_ In that case, I'll get Gilbert as well."

"Of course you will," Arthur sighs, too emotionally drained to argue.

Fortunately, Ivan manages to get a hold of the situation, and before long, their ragtag party of four are on the earliest train leaving for Chicago.

Gilbert provides some much needed humor to the crisis. Arthur and Ivan each add their own helping of worry and seriousness because when they find the boys, _so help them God_ they're going to be sorry. And Francis… Well, Francis is just there to irritate everyone.

But they are a team, nonetheless. A determined team, and no one is allowed to suffer without the other.


	13. Chapter 13

He has missed being in the city. Chicago has its own charm, and Alfred can sense it as soon as he steps out onto the train platform, ears buzzing with the chatter of hundreds of people talking at once. The crowd reminds him of home—the home where he would wake up in the morning and see his mother leaning against the windowsill as she listened to shuffling feet of New York beat against concrete. Even during the darkest days of the depression, Alfred remembers the steady march of the masses beneath their apartment, plodding on and on.

He closes his eyes, tosses his head back so the sun can warm his face, and everything comes rushing back to him in a whirling frenzy. It is the home of hot summer nights and playing chess with Matthew. It is the smell of hotdog stands and food carts. It is the crazy pigeons and squirrels in Central Park. It is everything he once loved and hated.

But then the moment is over, and he knows that as much as this _feels_ like home, it will never _be_ home. Chicago is not New York, but after being in what he considers to be the countryside for over three years now, any urban area is a welcome sight.

"Wow," Toris says as they try to orient themselves in the sea of people. Unlike Alfred, he has never known anything outside of small towns.

Alfred grins. "It's neat, huh?"

"It's… so different—like a million things are all going on at once, but I can't focus in on any of them."

"We're going to go to New York someday, so I can show you _everything_."

But Toris is already withdrawing into himself from all of the social stimulus. He grasps onto his knapsack like a lifejacket and murmurs, "Can we go someplace quieter?"

"Hey, you don't havta be scared. You have me as your super great leader. I'll take us to Mattie, and we'll be home by eight o'clock, okay?"

Toris nods his head but doesn't seem reassured in the slightest. And so, Alfred takes him by the hand and guides him out into the street, where it's just as noisy.

"Okay, first thing's first, we've gotta find a way to Bell Avenue."

"I thought you knew where we were going!"

"I do, I do!" Alfred defends himself. "I just need to look at a map first to make sure we end up going the right way. Umm… That's west, right? So… So we need to be… Hang on a sec."

"Alfred!" Toris whines.

"I know! I'll just ask somebody."

Alfred goes over to the first person who walks by, steels himself, and asks a large man, "Excuse me?"

"Get lost, kid," the man huffs.

Maybe they accidentally ended up in New York after all because the rudeness around these parts seems to have no bounds.

He tries again, but this time, he approaches a woman in the hopes she'll be more sympathetic. "Excuse me, ma'am. Do you know how to get to 6000 Bell Avenue?"

The woman raises a brow in surprise but is friendly enough. "Bell Avenue? That's quite a walk from here. I would take a taxi if I were you."

Alfred is perfectly willing to walk, but Toris isn't quite as motivated, and thus, they heed the woman's advice when she directs them to the nearest car service.

A pleasant elderly fellow gets a driver for them, and they hop inside their awaiting ride, restless and a bit anxious from the anticipation.

"Where are you kids going?" the driver asks.

"6000 Bell Avenue," Alfred recites.

"That's gonna cost you about two dollars. You got the cash?"

"Yes, sir."

"Okay, then."

Now that they have nothing else to do but sit back and wait, Toris calms down somewhat, even going so far as to nibble on one of the sandwiches Ivan prepared for him. He offers Alfred half, and he happily accepts, feeling a bit famished himself from all of the traveling they've been doing.

"You know, Toris. I'm really glad you came with me. Coming here alone wouldn't have been as fun."

Toris frowns around the food in his mouth and mumbles, "I'm going to be in _so_ much trouble."

"Me, too. It'll be worth it though, you'll see."

"I hope so."

Alfred smiles. "I know so."

"All right, kids," their driver announces. "We're here."

They find themselves on a ghostly little street, forgotten in the wild rush of the rest of the city. A line of red-brick houses conjoined at the hip look out into the traffic, and an orange light pours out of their windows. It looks homely enough, but Alfred spends less time sight-seeing and more time getting straight down to business. He takes two dollars out of his pocket and adds a quarter for the tip, remembering his manners.

"Thank-you, sir," he tells the driver, nodding his head graciously before taking Toris by the hand and clambering out of the car with him in tow. He races right up to the sleek door of one of the red-brick homes and raises his hand to knock, but for some reason, his knuckles never meet the wood. Instead, he lets his hand fall back to his side and frowns.

Toris looks at him strangely and asks, "What's wrong?"

"I-I don't know... What if he doesn't want to see me? Or maybe he doesn't remember me."

"How could he not remember you?"

"It could happen, right?" Alfred sighs, hands twitching with fear and uncertainty.

"Come on, just do it. We came all the way here for this," Toris urges him.

"Okay, you're right."

Alfred raises an unsteady hand again and knocks properly this time with bated breath. His mouth is dry, and his tongue feels like it's too twisted to form a coherent sentence.

A woman opens the door. Her hair is speckled with silver, and she seems impossibly tired. "What is it?"

"Hi," Alfred says lamely, voice thin and brittle. "We're looking for Matthew. Is he here?"

"Matthew? Who's Matthew?"

"Matthew Jones."

"Never heard of him," the woman snaps, already beginning to close the door on them.

Before they can be shut out, Alfred throws a hand forward and pushes the door open again. "What do you mean you've never heard of him? Matthew Jones! He's supposed to live here! He's thirteen and looks just like me!"

Making a noise of disgust, the woman pries his hand off of the door and says, "Come here again, and I'll have the police come after you!"

Then, the door slams in their faces, and Alfred is left to stand there, paralyzed. Toris bites his lip and tries to touch his shoulder, but Alfred shrugs him off and goes storming down the street instead without saying a word.

"Alfred? Where are you going? Come back!"

All of this effort, and what came out of it? Absolutely nothing. He's no closer to finding Matthew than he was before.

"Alfred, please! Slow down!"

Hot, burning tears run down his cheeks, but he keeps walking. He doesn't know where he's going, but he can't really be bothered enough to care anymore. It was so stupid of him to get his hopes up-to think that everything could be fixed in a single day. He should have never come here.

"Alfred!" Toris continues to shout from behind him, slipping into a jog to catch up. "At least you know now. That's what you wanted... Alfred! Alfred, I'm sorry!"

He finds his way into a park and collapses in the grass underneath one of the trees, pounding one fist against the earth in blind anger while Toris hovers over him and tries to find a way to help.

"Al, come on. Let's go get some food or something, and then we have to go home before-"

"What if he doesn't want to be found?"

"What?"

Alfred raises his wet face from the grass and chokes back a heavy sob. "If he wanted to find me, he'd be looking for me, too."

"Maybe he has been looking for you."

Alfred shakes his head and wipes a hand under his eyes. "I'm never going to find him, are I?"

"D-Don't say that. You might."

"You're just saying that to make me feel better."

Toris doesn't say anything in response. He doesn't have to. Alfred already knows the truth.

"Let's go home, Al."

* * *

 _"I know my heart won't beat again,_

 _Until the day we meet again,_

 _Sweetheart, goodbye, auf wiedersehen,_

 _Auf wiedersehen, my dear."_

Francis rolls his eyes at Gilbert and smacks him firmly over the head. "Stop singing that. You're upsetting Arthur. Look at him, he's already beside himself."

Gilbert frowns and rubs the sore spot, looking very much like a sad puppy. "Music is supposed to be relaxing. It heals the soul."

"I don't think Arthur wants to be healed," Francis snickers.

"Could _both_ of you belt up?" Arthur growls, shooting daggers with his eyes at both of them. "I have enough on my mind already, thank you. If you're going to act like children, then allow me to escort you back to the train platform."

"Okay, Mom. We'll be good," Gilbert snorts, gallivanting along. "We'll find the squirts, don't worry. Ivan doesn't seem so stressed out, and that means everything will work itself out."

But contrary to Gilbert's claims, Ivan is, in fact, very stressed out. He hasn't said a single word since they boarded the train, and it's been making all of them uncomfortable. He may as well be a volatile volcano, and he's likely to erupt into a frenzy at any given moment. And at that point, not even Gilbert's irritating sense of humor will be able to quell the aftermath.

"Are we almost there?"

"It should be on the next block," Francis informs helpfully, wisely standing between Gilbert and Arthur to keep them separated.

Gilbert lets out a satisfied hum. "Good. I'm hungry."

The red-brick houses come into view, and Arthur hurries ahead of the group, understandably impatient. He's at the doorstep before everyone else, and he raps on the door ruthlessly, not caring how impolite he's being.

The silver-haired woman ambles out. "Who're you?"

Unfazed by the woman's curtness, Arthur continues without hesitation. Unbeknownst to most, lawyers are very tough-skinned. "Good afternoon—"

"It's almost evening," Gilbert says, nudging him softly from the left.

"Rather, good evening," Arthur corrects, standing upright and on edge. "Did two young boys happen to come by here today?"

"Who's asking?" the woman mutters, dubious.

"I'm the... father of one of those boys."

"And you just let your child out of your sight?"

"Madame—" Arthur begins to protest through clenched teeth, down to the last drop of his composure.

The woman makes a tsking noise and puts a hand on her hip. "They were here about an hour ago, looking for somebody named Matthew."

Arthur's heart just about stops beating for a moment. "Do you have any idea where they could have gone?"

"They went in that direction," the woman says, pointing to the right. "If you keep going straight, you'll see a park. They could have gone there."

"Thank-you."

The door is shut, and Arthur allows himself to be a little relieved, although he won't feel entirely at ease until Alfred is under his supervision once more. This time, Ivan leads the gang along the street, still silent and refusing to speak.

"They can't be too far," Francis assures, and he, too, is beginning to express signs of anxiety.

For both Ivan and Arthur, it is the longest walk of their lives. By the time they see a cobblestone road and the plaque stating the name of the park, they're both shaking from head to toe and caught in a cold sweat.

Fortunately, the park isn't large, but it's just big enough to warrant having to break up into groups to make the search faster. Arthur and Francis decide to cover one half while Ivan and Gilbert cover the other. They navigate through the perimeter twice and when they reunite, they're still empty-handed and are left with no trace of the boys. They could be anywhere.

"Our next course of action should be to head for the nearest police station," Arthur states, voice cracking. He is completely panicked once again, and Ivan isn't doing much better.

To make matters worse, Gilbert decides to wander off, which only serves to agitate everyone even more.

"Where are you going?" Francis demands, unusually serious and intimidating. "Two children are missing! Have you forgotten why we're here?"

Gilbert narrows his eyes, a puzzled expression on his face. He's thinking hard about something, but he doesn't give any of his thoughts away. "You guys come up with a better game-plan while I grab some pizza from the pizzeria at the end of this hill. I'm starving."

"Can't you think about something other than food at a time like this?" Arthur cries out after him in disbelief, stricken. "Honestly..."

"I'll be right back! I swear!"

He's got a pair of rugrats to find.

* * *

When Gilbert walks into said pizzeria, he knows exactly what he's after. A hunch is what pulls him into the restaurant. He just feels like it's the right place to be, and he can't explain why he thinks so. His child senses are tingling. He knows that if he were thirteen-years-old, he'd be wanting a slice of pizza right about now. Hell, he wants a slice of pizza even now, as an adult.

And sure enough, he sees two adolescent figures tucked away in a booth in the back of the pizzeria, and for a long minute, he can't believe his eyes. He didn't think he'd actually find the boys here. It was a wild guess. A gut feeling. That, and he's still damned hungry as ever.

"Hey!" he shouts at them, and the two boys perk their heads up.

"Uncle Gilbert?" Alfred asks, eyes the size of the dinner plates they serve here.

"Don't 'Uncle Gilbert' me! What the hell do you think you're both doing here—running away from home like idiots? I don't even know what to say to you two! What if you were dead? Huh? What if somebody kidnapped you off the street? How do you think Arthur and Ivan would feel? How do you think I'd feel? I'm not giving either of you any more free candy from _Beilschmidt Sweets_ , not after today! Not after making me come all the way out here to parade around the city without any food or bathroom breaks! That's it! I've had it with both of you," Gilbert shouts at them, which is entirely unexpected and, thus, horrifying.

Toris slinks back into his seat, but Alfred has the audacity to talk back to him.

"Why do you care? You're not my dad!"

"Oh, OH," Gilbert huffs, offended. "Just wait until we get home... I swear to God... Ungrateful brats. Get up! Both of you! We're going to go back to the others. Walk in front of me so I can see you. Well, what are you waiting for?"

Neither boy seems to want to test Gilbert's patience anymore, so they rise and dutifully trudge along in front of him, making their way out of the pizzeria.

It doesn't take long at all for the others to spot them from the top of the hill, and within seconds, Arthur and Ivan are sprinting down the road toward them.

"Oh, no," Alfred sighs, and before he can say anything else, he finds himself caught in Arthur's arms, which tightly coil around his shoulders and pull him in close, head pressed to the man's chest.

"You're all right," Arthur says, gasping for breath. He takes another moment to collect himself, and then he pulls back from the embrace, reinvigorated with anger. And _Arthur_ , the man who has never dished out any physical punishment, suddenly grabs Alfred unforgivingly by the ear and gives him a sharp swat on the rear, eliciting a little cry of complaint from Alfred. "What were you thinking? Have you completely lost your mind? Do you have any idea what kind of hysteria you put me through? I have half a mind to keep your bedroom door locked from now on. You're not leaving the house until you're of retirement age, do you understand me, young man?"

"I only—"

"Don't argue! We're going STRAIGHT home, and then you're going to explain to me why you decided to send all of us on this wild-goose chase. And say goodbye to Toris as well, because you won't be seeing him for QUITE some time."

"But Arthur—!"

"No, don't talk! Let's go. I've had enough of this nonsense."

From beside them, Ivan is just as livid. He stares at Toris with cold eyes, and when the boy tries to apologize, Ivan directs him to start walking, deathly silent, which is worse than the shouting.

And once the preliminary round of discipline has been taken care of, Arthur turns to Gilbert and shoots him a grateful look, but it isn't necessary. This is just another hurdle they've jumped over, and there's no need for any words of thanks to be exchanged—they've known each other long enough to know each other's gratitude.

They start planning a route to get back to the train station to catch the last train of the night, and just as they come up with a plan, Alfred bursts into a waterfall of tears, succeeding at scaring everyone, including onlookers.

Arthur turns around to look at him, still stern, and asks, "Alfred, what is it? There's no need for tears, just tell me what's wrong."

"N-Nothing's wrong," the boy hiccups solemnly, doubled-over.

"Then why are you so upset?"

"Y-You all c-came to get us."

Arthur can't piece everything together at first, but then, he puts a hand on Alfred's shoulder and realizes that the boy isn't crying out of pain or anger—he's touched. Touched that they all came together to search for them. "Alfred, of course we came looking for you. We all care for you and Toris very much, and we'd be devastated if something happened to either one of you."

The mess of emotions seem to be too overwhelming for the poor boy, and he walks right into Arthur's arms, wanting to be held.

"Oh, Alfred," Arthur whispers, petting his head.

"H-He wasn't there. M-Mattie wasn't there."

"I know, love. I know… I'm sorry," Arthur desperately tries to soothe him, heart aching and contracting in his chest. "I know… If I had reason to believe he _was_ here, I would have told you."

"I thought you just didn't tell me because you didn't care," Alfred murmurs, sobs continuing.

"Of course I care. I want to find Matthew as well."

Alfred clings to Arthur a little longer and catches his breath, wanting nothing more but to go to sleep in his warm bed for the night. "I wanna go home."

Arthur dries his face with a handkerchief, smooths back his hair once more, and stands up to his full height, just as weary if not more so. "Let's go, then. We can talk about this again later."

And when Alfred falls asleep on the train ride back, he feels different somehow—older. Nothing seems the same.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note** : Here's yet another chapter. Let's keep the ball rolling. Just as a word of warning, there's a time skip between this chapter and the last one, so I hope that's not too confusing. Enjoy!

* * *

 _May 1937_

He's reaching his eight year anniversary in this town, and _Beilschmidt Sweets_ is still somehow his favorite place of refuge. The polished, caramel-colored tiles, the smell of chocolate fudge and mint cigarettes—it's just the way it always has been.

" _Hallo_ , squirt. What are you doing here on this perfect spring day? Don't you see all of the ladies are out today? Go and introduce yourself to some of them."

"I _really_ wish you'd stop calling me that. I'm not looking for any girls, I just needed to get out of the house for a bit."

"Ahh, having problems with Arthur again?"

"Kind of," Alfred sighs, dropping his head on the counter with a groan. "He still won't let me go to school in New York. He says I'm not responsible enough, but I'm plenty responsible, don't you think?"

Gilbert shrugs his shoulders, not wanting to say too much too soon. "I'd offer you a cigarette, but you can't smoke with your bad lungs. How about a beer instead?"

"Sure."

A minute later, a glass filled with ice and an imported German brew is set in front of the teen. He clinks his glass against Gilbert's and takes a swig, letting out a tiny sigh as the hot feeling of liquor travels down his throat and through his gut.

"I mean, he still treats me like I'm ten, y'know? It wouldn't hurt to give me some freedom now and then. I could honestly go to New York without his permission, but I _want_ him to be okay with it, so I don't have to worry about him holding some kind of grudge against me. He's so damned stubborn."

Surely, he's old enough now to make his own major life decisions? He doesn't need ol' Arthur clutching onto his hand, and he plans to make that crystal clear to him. If he wants to go to New York, that's what he's going to do. He has outgrown this town. It's time for bigger and better things. It's time to go back to the city that was always his true home.

"He's only trying to protect you. He doesn't want you to get hurt," Gilbert explains, counting the money in the register. "Besides, you haven't exactly shown him you're responsible enough to live so far from home."

Alfred makes a noise of disgust and sets his beer down, causing the ice in his glass to rattle. "But I can't stay with him forever. I've gotta live my life, too."

Gilbert shakes his head, eyes downcast. "Just make sure you don't forget about this life first."

"I thought you would understand."

"I see where you're coming from, kid, but Arthur has done so many things for you over the years. Maybe doing this one thing for him just once wouldn't be so bad."

But that's the problem—this isn't some petty matter Alfred can just compromise on. Where he ends up going to school is too important to leave up to Arthur's discretion.

He finishes his beer and bids Gilbert farewell because he promised to make dinner today, and if he doesn't get started soon, he'll be giving Arthur yet another excuse to criticize him. The man has been in court all week defending a client, and so, his patience is likely running thinner than usual.

Some chicken cutlets and mashed potatoes will have to do, because Alfred isn't skilled enough to try for something more intermediate. He's just finished with preparing the chicken and is waiting for the potatoes to finish boiling when Arthur walks into the house, briefcase hanging from one hand.

"Hey, there," Alfred says, trying to be welcoming as the man saunters into the kitchen.

"Hello, lad. Did anything interesting happen today?" Arthur asks, hiding his fatigue rather well.

"Nope. Just the usual. Same old stuff… Same, old day as yesterday," Alfred replies, unable to hold back the bite in his tone. His fingers are clenched tightly over a dishtowel, knuckles white.

Arthur, unsurprisingly, picks up on his seething anger immediately. "I know you're not happy with me, but not now, Alfred. After dinner, all right? I've had a trying day. I'm not going to argue with you."

"That's never stopped you before."

"You will speak to me civilly, or not at all," Arthur warns him, sounding quite intimidating and authoritative even now that Alfred is much taller and stronger in build than he is.

They never used to argue like this, and Alfred wonders if he's solely to blame. There are things about his caretaker that annoy him—things he's never noticed before—like how the man cannot be swayed. He has his point of view and sticks to it with unshakable conviction without even considering any alternatives. It's like talking to a stone wall.

"Maybe if you'd at least pretend to listen to me every now and then, I could be civil," Alfred mutters, watching Arthur knead at a knot in his shoulder.

"I always listen to what you have to say. Simply because I disagree with you doesn't mean I'm not listening."

They aren't getting anywhere, as usual.

"I just don't get it," Alfred sighs, slouching. "Why won't you let me leave? You're always complaining about how loud I am and how I keep leaving a mess in my room, so if I go away, you won't have to deal with that anymore. Just think about it—you could have the house to yourself again. You could do whatever parents do when their kids go away. Take a vacation. Go to the bar. Throw a party. I don't know—anything!"

Arthur folds his arms and frowns, creases appearing on his forehead. "That would be tempting, but I'm not trying to get rid of you just yet. Keep this up, however, and I may send you away to Europe to stay with my mother. I'm sure you two would get along swimmingly."

Alfred has heard enough stories about the man's mother to know better than to fall for such a trap. The woman nags at least twice as much as Arthur does, and she's reaching that ripe old age during which point one begins to complain and grouse over every little thing. Just last month, Arthur had sent her a letter asking if perhaps she'd consider leaving Europe due to the economic and political turmoil going on there, and she'd replied with an impudent, "This is my home. I don't care if Hitler comes marching through my living room, I'm not moving."

And so, Alfred isn't planning on going overseas any time soon.

"Arthur, I'm not going to die if you let me study in New York. I'll write letters, and I'll still visit you over the holidays."

"My answer is still no, Alfred. You'd be far better off studying at the University of Chicago or somewhere else in the state of Illinois."

"But I—!"

"Enough," Arthur growls, walking over to the kettle to make himself some tea. "That's my final decision on the matter."

So it is. Well then, if Arthur wants to make this harder than it has to be, then fine. Alfred can't allow himself to be deterred by this. He has plans of his own, and he will follow through on them.

No matter the cost.

* * *

It is the longest summer of Alfred's life. Some days, he wakes up with a burning ache of wanderlust and a restless urge to run. Run and take a chance, even if it hurts Arthur—even if he has to leave behind everything. There are days he is willing to make that sacrifice.

And then there are days like today, the day he had vowed to walk out the door, and he just _can't_ do it. One day the house is a prison cell. The next, it is his only sanctuary, and every neuron in his brain screams at him to stay.

His things are already packed for New York. He has just the necessities—everything he needs that won't be available at the university. All he has to do now is find a way to escape. He could do it now, while Arthur is at work, but then he wouldn't get the chance to say goodbye. He could wait until tonight for the man to return, but then he'd have to face Arthur's disappointment and inconsolable fury—all of his pain and anger.

Arthur still thinks Alfred is undecided about whether or not to study in Illinois, but that's because Alfred has been lying to him. In fact, he's been lying to him for over two months. He's always had his heart set on New York, and that hasn't changed.

It's going to break Arthur if he leaves, and Alfred knows it. It'll shatter him inside, and Alfred will go down in history as the worst son ever.

But it's time to let go. To move on. If he doesn't do it now, he never will.

He puts on his shoes, stands in the empty living room, and tries to ignore the churning fear in his stomach. He is a coward. He knows he won't be able to face Arthur if he waits for him to come home. Or worse, the man will find a way to convince him to stay.

Alfred pulls out the notepad Arthur keeps next to the downstairs phone and decides this last message will have to do. He begins to write, eyes stinging.

 _Arthur,_

 _Don't be angry. Well, I know you will be anyway, but try not to be_ _too_ _angry. You once told me that everyone gets to make their own mistakes in due time. Being young and reckless is a part of adulthood, and maybe this is my time. I never wanted to make you upset. I'm not leaving to hurt or worry you. I just need to be me, and I don't feel like I can do that here._

 _I'm sorry,_

 _Alfred_

He grabs his suitcase, switches off the light in the foyer, and goes.

* * *

"Arthur? Arthur, is everything all right?"

He sits down at his usual table at the end of the shop, cigarette seesawing between his fingers as he gazes out the window and lets the sun burn his eyes. He doesn't look at Gilbert—doesn't look at anyone or anything besides the light.

"What happened?"

Smoke streams out of his mouth, and along with it, all of the feeling in his bones.

"Arthur..."

What is there to say? Nothing, that's what, and yet, he is compelled to speak anyway, just to fill the empty space.

"Alfred's gone."

"Gone? What do you mean he's gone?"

"Gone. He went to New York, just as he wanted."

"Without telling you?"

"Without telling me," Arthur affirms, flicking ash off of the cigarette and taking another drag.

"Shit... Want a drink and a cigar?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

Gilbert shuffles away and returns a moment later. "Here's some rum with ginger ale."

"Thank-you."

Gilbert sits across from him, struggling to find something reassuring to say. "He'll be okay. He's been through worse and made it through. Sometimes kids have to learn on their own, right? You can't always be there to guide him."

"Yes, I suppose so," Arthur replies, sounding apathetic and cold and very unlike himself.

"Are you going to disown him now?" Gilbert says with a lofty tone, hoping a joke might ease the tension.

"No, not yet."

"Hmm... Maybe it's better this way, huh? He's going to see what the real world is like."

"I just wish he hadn't chosen New York of all places."

"Why's that?"

Arthur takes a sip of his drink, swallows thickly, and says, "The only reason he went to New York is because he's fabricated some kind of fantasy that his life will be glamorous and carefree there. He doesn't realize the magnitude of what he's doing. He hasn't been in the city for years, New York is riddled with memories of his past, and he doesn't know a single soul there. In essence, this situation is no different from when he was thirteen and insisted upon becoming a farmer. He jumps into things without thinking of the repercussions."

"And how do you know he won't somehow turn things around?"

"Because I know him. I also know he doesn't know what he wants."

Gilbert sighs, beginning to understand. "And did you tell him this was the real reason you didn't want him going to New York?"

"No."

"Of course you didn't," Gilbert snarls. "How did you expect him to take you seriously and listen if you didn't tell him the whole truth about how you felt from the start?"

"He wouldn't have listened to me anyway. There was nothing I could have done. He's had his belongings packed for two weeks. He thought I didn't notice. It was only a matter of time before he left."

"So what now? Are you going to go after him?"

"No. I don't have to."

Gilbert pauses and blinks a few times as he processes everything. "Aren't you worried about him?"

"Of course I am, but if I go to New York and drag him back against his will, he'll never learn. He needs to come back by his own volition, and he will, in due time."

"You're sure of that?"

"Quite sure."

But for someone who says they're certain about what they're doing, Arthur doesn't look like he's exuberating confidence. He puts out his cigarette and takes the cigar that Gilbert offers him, taking measured breath after measured breath to calm himself.

"He's a big boy. He knows what he's doing," Gilbert mumbles as Ludwig comes out of the storage room and pretends not to hear them while he mops the floor. "What'll you do when he comes back?"

"I don't know yet."

"Do you think he'll come back right away?"

Arthur sheds a dark smile and shakes his head, leaning back in his chair. "Oh, no. His pride won't allow that. It will take a while."

"Honestly, if I had a kid who put me through something like that, I wouldn't let him back in the house. He wants to be independent and on his own? Good for him. My door would be locked," Gilbert scoffs, sneaking a taste of Arthur's drink. "What's he studying again?"

"Engineering."

"Ahh, right. That's a good field, I guess."

The door to the shop jingles, signaling a customer. Gilbert reluctantly gets up from the table and turns around to tend to them, bringing his and Arthur's chat to a temporary halt. The look on his face, however, when he realizes who the visitor is, is priceless.

"Oh, Arthur. I saw you through the window and remembered I owe Alfred some money for fixing my fence. Could you give it to him when—?"

Elizabeta Hedervary has not placed a foot in _Beilschmidt Sweets_ since its grand opening, and now, here she is, in the flesh, acting as though this is not a momentous occasion in the least, just part of one of her usual errands.

"E-Elizabeta," Gilbert cuts her off, stumbling over her name. He has not heard the sound of her voice in a while, and he has not felt her name roll off his tongue in years. "Now is not a good time."

She immediately turns on him, as short-tempered and heated with him as ever. She's the sweetest woman in the universe to everyone else in town, but she doesn't tolerate Gilbert in the least. "And who are you to tell me what is and what isn't a good time?"

"Alfred isn't here, and Arthur isn't going to see him for a while, so you can keep your money," Gilbert explains as Arthur stays motionless.

Elizabeta seems to catch on because she turns red after a few seconds, embarrassed. "I'm sorry… I didn't know."

"It's all right," Arthur assures, finally speaking up.

Seizing his chance, Gilbert looks to Arthur for approval and then turns back to Elizabeta again, heart racing. "Why don't you sit down, and I'll get you something to drink, too?"

"I can't stay."

"Not even for one drink?" Gilbert asks, putting his puppy-dog eyes to good use. "Arthur needs all of the company he can get. Look at the poor man!"

It's not exactly true. In fact, Arthur would probably prefer to be left alone, and yet, he allows the little powwow at his expense and pulls out a chair for Elizabeta. He strikes up some small talk as Gilbert busies himself behind the counter, and soon, they're all sitting at the table, hunched over and all carrying their own, unique burdens. Arthur keeps most of the conversation alive because both Gilbert and Elizabeta have difficulty speaking directly to one another, and once he tires and decides that he's played his role as the third-wheel long enough, he gets up and leaves the two alone together, hoping they might work out their differences.

Maybe at least one relationship can be salvaged.

* * *

The city is not the way Alfred remembers leaving it.

The streets are busier. The stores are different. The eyes in the faces of the passersby are hard and accusing, as though he is personally responsible for their sadness. At least, that's what it feels like. The whole city is looking at him as if to say, "You left when we needed you most."

Home is no longer here. The street where his old apartment complex used to be has been torn down and turned into a construction site for a new community center that's part of the WPA program of Roosevelt's New Deal. Everything that was there: his old room, the writings carved into the windowsill, the rickety floorboard in the living room—all gone and turned to dust.

Mr. Karpusi is his new landlord. He gets Alfred an apartment in a not-so-friendly neighborhood, but the rent is cheap and until he finds himself some part-time work, he's not in much of a position to complain about the arrangement. It's a one-bedroom place with a tiny kitchenette and a bathroom stashed in the corner. One closet, one lamp, one side table, and that's pretty much it.

Alfred tries to get settled in as best as he can. Somehow, he will make this hovel a home, or so he hopes. Luxuries won't come crawling to his doorstep—he's going to have to work for them, and he knows this.

He doesn't do much on his first night. He unpacks his frugal belongings and sprawls over his new bed, which is really just a cot with rusty springs. He closes his eyes, rests an arm over his head, and thinks about how Arthur has probably realized he's missing by now. Is he angry?

His limbs become heavy, and he almost lets himself doze off, except a strange squeaking noise catches his attention, and he's forced to find its source. He sits up and takes a good look around the room, and right behind the side table, he notices an arch-shaped hole stretching from the floor to about two inches up the wall. In front of it, is a little gray mouse, wide-eyed and frightened at the prospect of having a new roommate. His nose quivers, his whiskers twitch, and he scampers away and out of sight.

Great, Alfred thinks, he has some company after all. He's not exactly the biggest fan of rodents, and so, he'll have to find a way to plug the hole to keep the damned creature from coming back. Hopefully, the mouse doesn't have a family of critters waiting to rear their faces.

Well, there's nothing he can do about it now, and so, Alfred takes off his glasses and decides to go to sleep early, a little hungry but not famished enough to get up and make himself some supper. In the coming days, he will learn that food will be the least of his concerns, and when he starts classes and work the following week, having the time to cook will be a mere dream; a phantasmagoria of what he might someday strive to achieve.

But he doesn't regret leaving town. He doesn't regret it for a single second. He wishes things could have been different—that somehow Arthur would have made things easier on both of them, and that he'd be more accepting, but he knows that's too much to ask.

He has to manage on his own now, if only to prove to himself and to Arthur that he can do it—that eighteen is old enough to live the life of a man.

He rests his head on his pillow, greets the darkness, and tries to ignore the scratching sound of mice running behind the wall.


	15. Chapter 15

Freedom is never as sweet as you imagine it'll taste.

It's more like soggy cornflakes in a bowl of cold milk at six o'clock in the morning. That's what Alfred normally has for breakfast nowadays, and sure, it's freedom, but it's a freedom he wasn't entirely ready for.

There's a squeak under his chair, and he doesn't have to look down to know that it's Percy—that's the name he gave to the mouse he lives with. Oddly enough, Percy doesn't have any other mouse friends that come to visit him. Alfred knows there are more mice in the building simply from the sheer amount of scratching behind the walls, but none of them have found their way into his room except for Percy thus far. The other mice, he assumes, are busy harassing other tenants.

As much as he wants to get rid of the pest, he can't find the willpower to kill the horrendous thing. Besides, Percy hasn't done any harm yet, and he has the decency not to leave any droppings on the carpet or anywhere in the apartment for that matter, so why not let the thing hang around for a little while? Perhaps Alfred's just going insane and making friends with vermin is the first symptom that something isn't right.

And having a mental illness doesn't sound so far-fetched at this point because most days, it's a challenge just to get out of bed. Alfred learns very quickly that although he has a knack for engineering, he hates it in practice. There's no passion—no fervor—that encourages him to get to his classes early and apply himself. He wants to have a thirst for knowledge for the subjects he's learning.

The only moments that seem to bring him joy anymore are the tutoring sessions he offers throughout the week in between his courses at the university. He gets paid decently, and he gets to help children ranging from the ages of six to eleven with basic reading and writing skills. All of the kids who come to see him always manage to bring a smile to his face, and there's something so gratifying about seeing their young minds at work.

He thinks of dropping his engineering classes to go into teaching instead, but it's a difficult decision that he isn't able to make right away. He needs more time to think things over, and yet, the clock is ticking. Each day he goes to class feels like his personal hell, and he begins a slow descent into a constant, depressed state, unable to muster any enthusiasm for anything anymore.

Then, there's the issue of his homesickness. He didn't think he'd miss Illinois so much, but after three months of being in New York, he really just wants to go to _Beilschmidt Sweets_ and treat himself to some caramel chews for old time's sake.

Once or twice, he drafts the beginnings of a letter to let Arthur know he's alive and managing, but he's never able to finish them, and he can't help but think that Arthur might not want to hear from him after the stunt he pulled. The man probably doesn't care if he's dead or alive—Alfred sure wouldn't if he were in Arthur's shoes.

He has been a bad and unreasonable son. That, and he's been running away from his problems and ignoring them. September goes by and he doesn't send a letter. October follows, and he can't even sign a postcard. November, and still nothing. He doesn't even send anything over Thanksgiving.

And Alfred is so, so, so _ashamed_. He didn't have to leave Arthur like he did. They should've worked things out together, like they always used to.

Now, he's all alone without anyone to guide him, and he realizes that he's still very much a boy, even though he prides himself in being eighteen.

December comes and he just can't take it any longer. He stops going to his classes and decides he'll write a letter to Arthur over Christmas, and if the man doesn't reply, then he won't send any follow-up letters.

But what the hell is he supposed to write anyway? Sorry for being a horrible child? Sorry for running away to New York? Sorry for breaking your heart and hurting you in a way that's now irreversible? His behavior has been unacceptable at best.

In a fit of anger, he kicks some storage boxes in the closet and curses loudly. Something makes a squeaking noise in protest, and he knows it can't be Percy because the mouse disappeared behind his hole in the wall almost half an hour ago.

Alfred crouches down, moves around some of the boxes, and a chew toy falls to the ground with a plonk. He reaches for it and remembers that it is one of Baron's old toys. His favorite toy, to be exact. He had taken it with him when he'd left, feeling sentimental.

And well, if that's not a sign of what he needs to do next, then he doesn't know what is.

He has to go back.

* * *

It's snowing when Alfred arrives in Illinois on Christmas Eve. Well, snowing is putting it lightly. It's more like a blizzard. He trudges through the icy wind and drags his suitcase behind him in foot-deep snow, huffing and puffing from the energy he has to expend just to make it from the train station to the town. His fingers are numb because his gloves have holes in them, his lungs are burning, and he can't see a thing because his glasses are all wet and fogged up.

He's so disoriented that he almost walks past the front porch. In this weather, all of the houses look identical.

The light in the living room is on. Arthur's probably reading a novel and drinking some tea. He can picture the man sitting in an armchair without a care in the world, enjoying the solitude.

And what right does Alfred have to take that away from him?

Something hot runs down his cheeks, and he realizes with a pang of bewilderment that he's actually _crying_. He's a grown young man standing in the middle of this damn blizzard, and he's bawling like a baby. Bawling because he hasn't seen Arthur in well over three months, and it feels like his whole world is falling apart at the seams. He doesn't know what to study or where to go. He's not sure what he wants to do with his life in the slightest anymore. And, to top it off, he's pushed away the only person that he considers family.

He stands there for a long moment, and while he's still a weeping mess, he walks up the porch steps and forces himself to knock on the front door, shaking from both the cold and the gravity of the emotions his brain is struggling to cope with.

He hears movement from inside, and the door swings open, revealing a stunned Arthur with wide, green eyes.

Alfred opens his mouth to say something—anything—but before his tongue can remember how to form words, a set of familiar arms hug him around the middle and pull him close.

He looks down at Arthur, feeling as though someone just sent a shock of electricity down his spine. He'd expected the man to yell and be furious, or, at the very least, to slam the door in his face, so why is he _hugging_ him?

Suddenly, he remembers being in this same exact position back when he'd escaped to Chicago with Toris when he was thirteen. Back then, Arthur's arms signaled safety and security, and now, five years later, they are still just as warm and protective.

"Not one bloody letter to let me know you were okay," Arthur snarls viciously into his shoulder.

Alfred swallows back a sob and shivers. He has missed the man's voice. "I'm sorry, Arthur. I was being immature and stupid and _I'm sorry_. Please don't hate me. I understand if you want me to leave. You can say you never want to see me again, but don't hate me."

"Idiot boy," Arthur snaps at him, hugging him harder. "I could never hate you."

He's soaking Arthur's sweater with his tears, but the man doesn't seem to mind. He just brings a hand to the back of Alfred's head and says, "Come inside before you catch your death out here. Hurry along."

He doesn't deserve to be allowed in, but Arthur insists, shutting the door behind him and blocking out the unforgiving cold.

"Boots off."

"Arthur, I—"

"Shh," Arthur hisses before tugging off his coat and throwing a blanket over his shoulders. "You're a right mess, aren't you? Come, sit."

He's swept into the living room and over to the plush armchair he has sat in multiple times over the years, saddled with troubles and worries just like now. He pulls the blanket closer to his body and huddles into himself, trying to get his frostbitten hands to thaw out.

Arthur stands before him with a conflicted expression, a lecture already poised on his lips. He's angry, but it's clear that his relief is stronger than his frustrations, and as he regards Alfred, he takes notice of how unkempt the boy is. His hair is long and overgrown, he hasn't shaved, he's lost a few pounds, and he's pale and ashen, giving him an overall unhealthy appearance.

"I don't need to tell you that what you did was irresponsible. You made the decision that you did, and you're an adult, which means you must be beholden to the consequences of your actions," Arthur begins, a hand on his hip and a firm scowl on his face. "You're an adult, and I cannot keep you chained here. You don't have to stay. You can live wherever you please."

"B-But I was wrong, and I want to stay. Am I unwelcome here?"

Arthur purses his lips. "You're always welcome here, but if you're going to stay, you must respect the conditions I set for you. This is my house, after all, and while you're in it, you're under my authority."

Alfred dries his running eyes and nose, nodding. "Arthur, I'll do anything you want me to… I just… I'm so lost and everything I thought to be true isn't, and I feel like a little kid because I don't have anything figured out, and—"

"There, there," Arthur murmurs, putting a comforting hand on his head. "You don't need to have all of the answers yet. You have plenty of time to choose what to do. I know you don't want to hear this, but you're still very young—far too young to be making all of your life's decisions right away."

"I wish I'd known that before," Alfred says with a miserable chuckle as the clock strikes midnight. "M-Merry Christmas… I should've brought a gift or something."

Arthur shakes his head at him and clicks his tongue. "Having you back is enough."

"You know, I'd feel better if you yelled at me."

"Why should I do that when I can kill you with kindness instead?" Arthur jokes before patting Alfred's shoulder. "Let's get you settled back in, shall we?"

* * *

"Your dad told me I'd find you here."

Toris looks up from the frosty river, startled. He relaxes when he sees that it's only Alfred, and the two exchange a smile and a brief hug. "Yeah, I still come here to unwind. Guess some things never change. So, are you back for good now?"

"Until I find out what my next plans are," Alfred explains, leaning back against the trunk of a tree. "You're going back to school in California after the holidays?"

"Yup, and then, I want to get through pre-med."

"That's cool, at least you've got something you're really excited about."

"How are things between you and Arthur?"

Alfred shrugs his shoulders and smiles. "Better. You know, I didn't realize how much I'd miss the old man's nagging until I didn't have him around anymore."

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder," Toris quotes. "By the way, I think Gilbert was looking for you. It might be important."

"All right, I'll go and pay him a visit. We can catch up another time."

"Sure. Oh, and Alfred? The next time you run off like a crazy person, the least you could do is say goodbye to your best friend."

Alfred laughs nervously and scratches the back of his neck. He's lucky Toris puts up with so much of his drama, and even though they haven't seen each other in a while, it feels as though they were never really apart. "It won't happen again."

He finds Gilbert moping outside of _Beilschmidt Sweets_ , smoking a cigarette underneath the store's awning. The expression on his face suggests something horrible has happened—a death in the family, or perhaps, the discovery that a loved one has contracted a terminal illness. Alfred braces himself for the worst and mentally rehearses some words of condolence to impart upon the man, but as he's doing that, Gilbert raises his shaggy, platinum-colored mop of hair and tries to shoot him a dopey smile.

"Hey, squirt. It's good to have you back."

"It's good to be back."

"I'm surprised you're still alive. I thought for sure that Arthur would have skinned you alive for disappearing like that, but I guess he's still got a soft spot for you somewhere, huh?"

"Believe me, I'm surprised, too," Alfred says with a lopsided smile. He knows Arthur is too good to him at times. He acknowledges it now more than ever. "You were looking for me earlier?"

"I just wanted to know what you were up to."

"So, why do you look so down? Did something happen?"

" _Ja_ ," Gilbert mutters with a frown, clinging to his cigarette like a lifeline. "Elizabeta and I are going out to dinner, and I don't know what to do."

Alfred's jaw involuntarily drops an inch in astonishment. "Really? That's great!"

" _Nein_ , it's the worst thing that could ever happen to me! I don't know what to wear, and we're going to have to talk for the whole evening. She'll mention something about the weather and then she'll ask me how I'm _feeling_ , and I'll have to talk about my emotions and all of that garbage! And then, after I'm done, I'm going to have to ask her how _she_ feels, and she'll be calm at first but within minutes everything will spiral out of control, and the next thing you know, she'll be throwing breadsticks at my face or hitting me over the head with a menu," Gilbert moans.

"I mean, but maybe it won't be so bad. Maybe by the end of the night you guys will be friends."

"Friends? FRIENDS?" Gilbert cries, lashing an arm out in front of him. "We can't be friends!"

"Why not?"

"Because it'd be too uncomfortable! Every time I look at her, I… I…"

Alfred nods sympathetically. "I get it, but you have to confront your fears at some point. I'm sure everything will work itself out one way or another."

"Maybe you're right, squirt. Maybe you're right…"

* * *

It is established that Alfred will go back to school in the spring, except, instead of studying in New York, he'll try being in Chicago instead, which is a little less than a two hour commute. He'll be able to come home for the weekends and holidays, and if anything major happens, he'll be able to travel to and fro without it being too big of a hassle. Alfred plans to take a few courses in education to see if things turn out better than the engineering career path, and it'll all be a nice change of pace.

It's an arrangement that works for Alfred as well as for Arthur. And though neither of them ever says it, they know they can't function soundly if they subject themselves to being so far apart again. Alfred needs his mentor nearby, and Arthur needs to know that he can come in and intervene if something goes wrong.

And once they have both come to an agreement, things move more smoothly. They quickly fall back into their routines, are most pleasant toward each other, and to any person wandering by, it's clear that they care for each other a great deal.

They spend the rest of the winter recess together, shoveling snow and staying inside on most days. Alfred catches up on all of the gossip in town with the help of Francis's plethora of anecdotes. Apparently, Gilbert's dinner with Ms. Hedervary went well since they go on two more 'dates', so to speak, after that. It's good to see the man happier and walking with a bounce in his step.

Toris leaves early to go back to school in California, and as soon as he's gone, Ivan frequently stops by the house to speak with Arthur, trying to deal with the loss he so clearly feels when his son isn't around. It's encouraging to know that Ivan and Arthur can discuss such matters, so that Alfred can rest easy knowing that although he'll soon be gone for the majority of the semester again, Arthur won't be left entirely alone.

But then, one day, something peculiar happens. Alfred goes out to pick up some fish from the market, and as he's doing so, he runs into Ms. Hedervary, who, for some strange reason, seems to be acting a little cold toward him.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Hedervary!" he calls to her with a beaming smile, hoping to make her feel better. He doesn't know what he did wrong, but it doesn't really matter. He wants to be on good terms with everyone in town.

"Good afternoon," she grumbles in response, eyes downcast. "Didn't you notice me this morning?"

"Notice you?"

"I saw you in the bakery this morning. I waved to you."

Except, Alfred hasn't been to the bakery in an entire week. "I think you've got the wrong guy, Ms. Hedervary. I wasn't at the bakery today. Maybe you saw someone who looked like me?"

"Oh, my mistake then. I could've sworn it was you. Oh, well! No harm done!" she says with more enthusiasm and a good-humored giggle. "I should get my eyes checked. Take care!"

"You, too!"

Huh... At first, Alfred thinks nothing of it. After all, there are other dark blond males in town, and from behind, he could've been mistaken for any one of them. He continues on his hunt for the fish, and when he returns home, he completely forgets about the incident and helps Arthur fix the radio since it's been acting wonky lately and occasionally makes a horrific shrieking noise of unabated static. He's halfway through picking it apart to find the problem when there's a knock at the door.

"Don't worry, I'll get it," Arthur volunteers, crossing the living room as Alfred continues to try to make sense of the tangle of wires before him.

He hears the door being opened, followed by a few seconds of silence. He assumes it's Ivan because he promised to bring over a new medication for Alfred to try for his asthma the other day—something about an inhaler that's supposed to be more effective than the ephedrine he's been chugging for years.

He listens hard, and yet, he doesn't hear a Russian accent echoing from the foyer. The visitor's voice is so hushed that he can't make out who it is, until his curiosity gets the best of him, and he decides to go and greet the person himself.

"Please, come in," he hears Arthur say in a strangled tone, followed by the clicking of shoes against wood.

"Hey, who's—?" Alfred stops himself, voice catching in his throat. He stares at the person standing by the door, and it's like looking in a mirror—a slightly off-kilter mirror.

"Matthew."


	16. Chapter 16

Alfred has waited years for this. He has rehearsed line after line of what he would say given the opportunity. He has replayed every possible scenario like a film in his mind, waiting, hoping, _praying_ for this moment to finally arrive, and now that it has, he doesn't have the slightest idea of what he should do.

His first impulse when Matthew walks through the door is to embrace him—hug him tight and not let go until he can ensure he has made up for all that lost time that went by without hugs. He takes a half-step forward, lifts his arm partially, but he can't manage to put his arm around his brother. Brother—the word itself sounds foreign to his ears nowadays.

Matthew just stands there in the foyer, doe-eyed and timid in the polite sort of way Alfred always remembered him being. They're almost the same height, have the same hair color, the same clean-shaven face and wiry glasses. And yet, despite all of the similarities they share, Matthew still seems like a stranger.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way. They were supposed to have their tearful reunion and frolic happily off into the rest of their lives. Alfred didn't expect to be rendered speechless. How can he be afraid to say a word to his own sibling? What is _wrong_ with him?

"Alfred," Matthew says very softly, edging his way closer. "I-It's been a while."

Alfred lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and frowns. "You could say that again."

Arthur seems to know he's struggling because a cordial smile ghosts over his face as he gestures to the living room. "Please, Matthew, have a seat. I'll set the kettle for some tea."

"Thank you."

Alfred follows them, stoop-shouldered as he sits in a chair across from his brother. Soon after, Arthur wanders off into the kitchen, leaving the two of them perfectly alone to drown in the heavy silence.

"So," Alfred begins, uneasily. "How are you?"

Matthew ventures a little smile and shrugs his shoulders. "I'm well."

"What happened? I mean... after the sickness, and Mom..."

"To be honest, I'm not really sure. I woke up in a hospital a week later, and after that, I was taken to a temporary foster home. From then on, I jumped from home to home until recently. I have a place in Philadelphia. It isn't much, but it's better than having to rely on people who I can't always trust," Matthew explains. "But it's good to know that you're okay. You have a home and... And a new life."

Alfred feels his throat constrict. "Y-Yeah. I was lucky, that's for sure. It's good to know you're okay, too. I always thought about you," he mutters with a blush. "I wanted to find you. I didn't even know if you were alive, and I-I..."

To his surprise, it is Matthew who finally breaks the wall between them and pulls him into a hug. "Better late than never, right?" he jokes weakly, arms around Alfred's shoulders. "I've missed my brother."

"I've missed you, too... Oh my God, Mattie, I've missed you more than you could ever know. H-How did you even find me all the way out here? I was looking for you, and I—"

"You mean, Arthur didn't tell you?"

"Tell you what?"

"He sent me a letter—sent everyone named Matthew Jones a letter. There must be hundreds of people named Matthew Jones in the country. He wasn't sure if it was me, and I was going to send him a reply to say he had the right guy, but I thought it'd just be better to show up in person."

Arthur found him? Since when had he been sending all of those letters?

"Mattie, could you give me one second? I'll be right back. I've just got to check something."

"Of course, no problem."

Hastily, Alfred rises from his chair and makes a dash for the stairs. He doesn't stop running until he reaches Arthur's office and bursts through the door, finally realizing why the man has been more busy than usual as of late. On his desk, are dozens of envelopes stacked on top of one another, each addressed to various individuals named Matthew Jones. There's ink all over the place, scattered papers, broken pencils—it's an absolute pigsty that's completely uncharacteristic of his guardian.

He lets the sight sink in and feels it permeate his bones, and once he's been standing there long enough, he rushes back to the living room, and enters just as Arthur brings out the tea.

And Alfred knows now that the man truly does care. He has cared all this time, put himself through all of this trouble, and his efforts have not been in vain.

For a good moment, Alfred just stares at Arthur in disbelief, gaping at him. If the man notices, he doesn't say anything, and continues being a good host instead. He offers Matthew something to eat, but Matthew politely declines, and then they're all together in the same room again.

"Hey, Matt? How about we go out for a walk, and I'll show you around town?" Alfred suggests, recovering from his daze. He'll confront Arthur about all of this later. The day is still young.

"Sure."

They finish the tea, and Matthew thanks Arthur for his hospitality before they leave.

Once they're out the door, talking comes a little more naturally.

"I was at the bakery this morning to get something for lunch," Matthew mentions, adjusting the strap of his backpack, which he apparently carries with him everywhere, since he didn't want to leave it at the house.

"Oh, that explains why my neighbor thought she saw me earlier," Alfred laughs, piecing together this morning's string of events. "She was pretty upset because she thought I was giving her the cold shoulder."

"Sorry about that."

"Don't apologize. It wasn't your fault," Alfred assures, leading the way to the river. "Things must not have been easy for you, huh? Constantly having to change homes all the time sounds rough."

Matthew gives a sheepish shake of the head, painfully modest. "It could have been worse. Arthur seems like a nice person. Are you happy living with him?"

"He's… He's great. Too great sometimes. I couldn't have picked a better, stodgy Englishman to look after me," Alfred jokes, grinning. "But yeah, he's a good guy. A little stubborn and overly protective sometimes, but good."

"I'm glad."

"Are you happy in Philadelphia now?"

"Happier than I ever was before," Matthew admits with a sigh. "I write for the local paper. Everything's quiet in my neighborhood, just the way I like it to be."

It relieves Alfred to know that his brother is managing. Still, a part of him feels a little wounded and hurt for a reason he can't quite explain. Now that they are both older and are beginning their adult lives, everything feels like it's happened too late—like Alfred has missed his chance to truly rekindle their relationship. Matthew has a life of his own now. He has hopes, dreams, and big plans. The innocence they once shared in their childhood is something they will never be able to get back.

It will never be the same.

They reach the river, and Alfred stands at the very edge of the bank, peeking down at the little fish worming their way in between the rocks. Skipping stones, running between the trees, talking to the drifters, that time Toris got bitten by a snake—all of it happened here, and Matthew wasn't around for any of it.

"None of it was your fault," Matthew suddenly whispers, frightening them both. "I can tell that you feel like you're somehow responsible, like somehow it was your obligation to find me, but it wasn't. It never was, and just because things didn't turn out so great or magical doesn't mean you need to blame yourself."

"I know that."

"No, you don't. Just because I haven't seen you in years doesn't mean I've forgotten what a compulsive liar you are."

Alfred cracks a smile and nods. "You always had a good memory."

"Well, yeah, how else would I be able to blackmail you for all of the stuff you did when we were little?" Matthew laughs quietly, looking out at the rushing, foaming water.

"So, what happens now?"

"Huh?"

"We're going to have to say goodbye again after today, aren't we?" Alfred asks, breath catching in his throat. "You have your whole life set up in Philadelphia, and I'll be going back to school soon. This is it for us."

Matthew makes a disapproving noise and glowers. "Don't say that. We can always visit each other."

"Getting to Philadelphia from here and vice-versa isn't exactly the easiest trip in the world," Alfred notes, hating how sullen he sounds.

"We'll make it work, but let's not talk about that right now. I came here to see you, and we should take advantage of the time we have left. Tell me what you've been up to. Tell me anything, really. I'm missing almost nine years' worth of information."

And so, Alfred tells him, from the first day he went home to Arthur to his continuous adventures with the Beilschmidt brothers, Ivan, Ms. Hedervary, and Francis. He tells him about the raucous walks to school and back with Toris, the long conversations about politics and life with Gilbert, the days spent sitting in the yard or by the river, the lung spasms, running away to Chicago and then New York.

He talks and talks until he doesn't have anything left to say, and Matthew listens intently to it all, nodding, humming, frowning, and occasionally laughing at the collection of tales. When he's finally done, the sun is almost down, and he turns to Matthew, expecting him to take the weight of the conversation and chip in his own anecdotes, only he doesn't.

"Come on, I spent like two hours telling you all of the stuff from my life. Now you have to tell me what happened to you," Alfred urges him, sitting pretzel-styled in the grass.

"My life hasn't been that interesting," Matthew replies truthfully. "I stayed in a few lousy foster homes, and then eventually turned eighteen and got a job so I could live on my own. I wasn't close with any of the families I was put with, but there was nothing wrong with them. They were perfectly ordinary."

"If they were 'perfectly ordinary,' then how come you had to keep changing homes?"

"I had a… dark period. I didn't really want to talk to anyone, and I guess I was too much to handle sometimes. I wasn't a bad or disobedient kid by any means, but I didn't open up to others, and so, a lot of the families I stayed with felt like I was ignoring them or didn't appreciate what they were doing for me, which wasn't true, of course."

"That must've been awful. I'm sorry."

Matthew shakes his head and smiles the gentle smile Alfred has missed. "Don't be. Like I said earlier, it's not your fault… It's getting late."

"You have a long trip back, huh?"

"Yeah, and I have to get back to work."

"Can't you at least spend the night? Arthur wouldn't mind."

"I wouldn't want to impose…"

"Impose?" Alfred repeats in disbelief. "You wouldn't be imposing! You're my _brother_. Come on, you can leave first thing in the morning. Please?"

Matthew hesitates and shuffles from foot-to-foot in thought, but just when Alfred thinks he's going to decline the offer, he says, "All right. I'll stay for tonight."

* * *

"Let me know if I can get you anything else."

"I'm fine, Mr. Kirkland, really."

"Oh, you needn't be so formal. Don't be reluctant to call me if something is amiss."

"Yeah, Mattie, he doesn't bite. I promise," Alfred teases his brother from the doorway of the guestroom. "I'm right down the hall, too, so if you get lonely, you know where to find me."

Not accustomed to being the center of attention, Matthew flushes with a hint of embarrassment. He sits down on the bed he'll be sleeping in for the night and says, "Thank you both, again. I'll be all right."

And with that, Alfred and Arthur leave the room, giving Matthew some privacy to get settled in. Arthur turns to make his way into his own bedroom, but Alfred stops him midway in the hallway, blue eyes twinkling.

"Thank you," Alfred murmurs, biting the inside of his cheek. "Y-You gave me a chance at some closure, and for that, I'll always be grateful."

Arthur's brow twitches in surprise, but he recovers within a second and puts a firm hand on Alfred's shoulder. "You're welcome."

"Well, then, goodnight and sleep tight."

"Goodnight, my boy."

"I'm not really a boy anymore, you know," Alfred reminds him.

"Yes, you are. You'll always be a boy to me. Sleep well."

It isn't fair that they should have to part ways like this right after being reunited, and yet, neither of them can do anything about it.

"I'll write to you," Matthew assures as they share a final hug. "You won't have to wait nine years to see me again."

Alfred squeezes him with all of his might, closes his eyes, and begs his brain to remember every single detail of this moment—the way Matthew's arms feel around his waist, the hot sun on their backs, their hoarse, exhausted voices because they spent the whole night talking to each other in the guestroom instead of sleeping. "I'd better not. Promise you won't forget about me?"

"I won't forget about you, dummy."

"All right. Send me a letter as soon as you get home. I want to know how the trip went."

"Okay."

"And you're coming over for Thanksgiving this year, right?"

"Right."

"Okay," Alfred sighs, finally letting his arms fall back to his sides. "Be careful, then. I'll see you soon."

"See you soon."

It is not the last time he will have to let Matthew go.

* * *

 _September 3, 1939_

The world stops. Alfred feels it as he walks down the stairs and into the living room, where the radio is blaring, and a silent Arthur is sitting on the couch, head in his hands.

" _England and France declare war on Germany after the invasion of Poland_ ," a news anchor announces, and it is as though the whole globe is listening, huddled together in equal horror.

Alfred stares at Arthur as the man lifts his head, and he can see flashes of the Great War already flickering in his green eyes—the trenches, the gunfire, the constant fear of an attack, the squelch of boots stomping against the mud, screaming mothers, politicians delivering their polished speeches, all of it.

"Arthur," Alfred calls to him, voice faltering. "What's happening?"

Arthur shakes his head and stands, one hand still cupped against the side of his face in worry. "Will there ever be peace?"

They both understand the gravity of the event. This will not be a quick or bloodless fight—they'd be naïve to believe so. It is the battle against fascism—a war for the preservation of both democracy and human dignity, and yet, no war is ever dignified.

"It's all right. We're an ocean away," Alfred assures, regaining some of the strength in his voice.

"Yes, but for how long?"

How long, indeed? Everything is left up to chance now. There is no certainty in anything, and it's that lack of certainty that leaves a dark cloud of helplessness hanging over their heads. It is a helplessness they will have to grow accustomed to in time.

Alfred sighs, suddenly losing all of his morning appetite. "Well, there's nothing we can do about it for now. We just have to hope for the best."

Which is easier said than done. It's hard to divert one's attention to anything else, especially as the war becomes a topic of conversation at every dinner table, every store counter, and every street corner.

And to make matters worse, the unthinkable happens the following weekend. The smell of smoke is what sends Alfred and Arthur rushing across town, and when they find its source, they are greeted with the sight of _Beilschmidt Sweets_ consumed in an inferno of unrelenting flames.

Gilbert is outside, screaming profanities as he tries to salvage whatever he can from the ongoing fire, ignoring Ludwig's insistences that he step away from the burning building. A crowd gathers and watches in bewilderment, eyes glowing with the reflections of the orange sparks.

Arthur, meanwhile, snaps out of his momentary stupor and snatches Gilbert's wrist, yanking him back. "Leave it, Gilbert! It doesn't matter!"

"Doesn't _matter_? That's _my_ store! My entire life!" Gilbert shrieks in response, trying to break free.

"Your safety is more important. _Leave it_."

Gilbert slams his eyes shut and lets out a pained howl, completely beyond reason as Arthur tosses an arm around his middle and leads him away from the wreckage. His face is covered in soot and grime, and he drops his head against Arthur's shoulder, wailing and groaning as the fire department finally arrives and tries to keep the flames from fanning out.

It is the first of many hate crimes against Germans that Alfred will witness or hear of.

There is, however, a glimmer of salvation. As Arthur makes sure Gilbert doesn't do any harm against himself or others, Ms. Hedervary appears out of the black haze of ashes and broken glass and takes Gilbert by the hand. She tugs him over to her, kisses his cheek, and wraps both arms around his neck, a cold tear splashing onto his jawline.

"Shhh," she coos, brushing his hair back. "It's okay. You're okay."


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note:** There's one chapter left after this! Thank you all for sticking with me for this long!

* * *

 _November 1939_

The daffodils are dying.

Alfred sees their wilting stems and petals when he visits Arthur for Thanksgiving that year. The snow is early, and it has buried the garden, leaving a blanket of unpleasant slush behind.

It is also the first holiday he shares with Matthew since they were children, and although the weather is despicable, and there's a war escalating across the Atlantic, they find some peace and make the best of it.

It turns out Matthew's culinary experience is far more advanced then Arthur and Alfred's combined, and so, he does most of the cooking, even though Arthur protests for a good while and claims, "Don't be ridiculous Matthew. You're our guest."

There are brief flashes of shame that run through Alfred's mind as the sun sets and dinner is lavishly served. It seems wrong to be celebrating when there's so much despair in the world. How can they let themselves indulge when others are rationing every crumb on their plate? And though no one says it because it'd be disgraceful, they are all thankful for something atrocious—that they are not on the front lines like the Europeans are.

Arthur has tried yet again to reach out to his mother in the past few weeks in order to convince her to come and stay with them in the States, but she cannot be swayed. Reasoning with her proves to be as futile as it always is, and as much as Arthur is frustrated, Alfred can also tell there's a part of him that respects the old woman's courage.

Some scented candles are lit on the kitchen table, and Matthew brings out the turkey he has dutifully been tending to all day along with a plethora of mashed potatoes, cranberry-apple stuffing, and an assortment of every steamed vegetable known to man.

They take their seats at the table, and as Arthur and Matthew chat, Alfred casts his gaze out to the nearby window and watches the daffodils slump under the weight of the sprinkling snow again. It isn't right. The daffodils have no hope for survival. They aren't equipped for the changing season, and why should they have to suffer because of something they have no control over?

"Al? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, Matt. Just a little tired."

The bedroom light in the second-story of Francis's house is on. He doesn't seem to be celebrating Thanksgiving, which Alfred supposes is understandable, since he lives alone. There isn't much sense in preparing a turkey for just one person. It's strange how he's never noticed that about the Frenchman before.

Arthur, perceptive as always, notices where Alfred is staring and frowns. A muscle in his jaw twitches as though he's about to say something, but he stops himself at the last second. Instead, he rises from the table with a softly murmured, "Excuse me for a moment, boys," and saunters over to the front door before stepping out into the cold, not even bothering to grab his coat.

Stunned into silence, Alfred watches his caretaker knock on Francis's door through the window. The light on the ground floor flares with life, and Francis appears, a bittersweet smile on his face that grows in size as Arthur exchanges some words with him.

Then, the light is switched off again, and Francis follows Arthur out into the cold and across the empty street to their house, lively and merry like a man who has just seen the world with his own eyes for the very first time.

"I hope you boys don't mind if we have a guest tonight," Arthur mutters as he returns to the kitchen, cheeks rosy from the chilly wind outside.

They don't mind. Not at all.

* * *

 _December 8, 1941_

He's in his early childhood education class when he hears the news.

The mumbled whispers of his peers are carried throughout the lecture hall, bouncing off the walls and ringing against his ears like the slow shriek of falling bombs.

 _The United States is at war with Japan_.

The war is no longer some apparition across the pond. It is here. It is real, and it is just beginning.

He goes home to Arthur the following weekend, because he can't stand to be alone when so much is going on in such a short period of time.

"It won't be as bad here. You'll see," Arthur promises one night as they're lounging out on the porch. "We've nothing to prematurely worry about."

Alfred crosses his fingers and hopes he is right.

* * *

 _May 1942_

Spring recess provides much needed reprieve from the debilitating drama. With the sun shining on Alfred's face like it is now, it's hard to believe anything could possibly be awry.

He's off to the store to pick up the weekly sugar ration. It'll be needed to cook, and furthermore, Arthur wants to finally be able to sweeten his tea, even if he has to meticulously measure out each spoonful of the stuff with great care.

Fortunately, the line at the shop isn't long, and Alfred's done within minutes, the half-pound box of sugar tucked beneath his arm.

He spots Gilbert and Ms. Hedervary walking hand-in-hand on his way back, and he greets them with a genuine grin, elated to see the two of them not just getting along, but expressing actual fondness for one another. There is a silver-lining to everything after all, it would seem.

" _Hallo_ , squirt."

And although Alfred is now twenty-two and going on twenty-three (a fully grown and mature young man, thank you very much), Gilbert's nickname for him has continued to stick.

"Hey, Gil. You're still okay with going fishing on Saturday?"

" _Ja_ , of course. I need some man time."

Ms. Hedervary doesn't hesitate to slug Gilbert in the shoulder. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, honey. I just need some awesome me time—man-to-man, out in the woods with this squirt here, trying to survive against the globe's harshest elements."

"Elements?" she laughs mockingly. "You're going to a lake fifteen minutes out of town and coming back at the end of the day. There aren't any 'elements' to speak of."

"Shh, Liz. You're ruining the positive aura. Women just don't understand."

Not looking forward to getting caught in the crossfire of one of their bickering sessions, Alfred chuckles and bids the love-birds farewell. He needs to get home early if he wants to have time to repair the ceiling fan in the living room tonight.

He hops up the steps of the porch of the house and nudges the front door open when he arrives. Then, he heads straight for the kitchen and places the box of sugar in the pantry, whistling to himself quietly.

Arthur is standing by the counter, looking intently through the mail. It's mostly bills, and a PSA explaining some more of the rationing programs that will be implemented in the coming months.

The final envelope, however, seems to catch Arthur's full attention, and he gawks blankly at it, stricken.

It it's a problem with the electric company again—

" _Alfred_ ," Arthur croaks, blanching. Everything becomes still, even the little specks of dust floating innocently under the sunshine by the windowsill.

"Yeah? What've you got there? Man, you look like you've just seen a—" he peeks at the letter, and his words wither in his throat.

" _ORDER TO REPORT FOR INDUCTION_

 _To ALFRED F. JONES,_

 _You are hereby notified that you have been selected for training and service in the ARMY. You will, therefore, report to the induction station listed below to be examined at the scheduled date and time. Willful failure to report promptly at the hour and on the day named in this notice is a violation of the Selective Training and Service Act of 1940, as amended, and subjects the violator to a fine and imprisonment._ "

"Alfred," Arthur says again before he grabs Alfred by the shoulders and presses his face into his neck. "Alfred, Alfred, Alfred…"

Alfred leans against his old guardian's shoulder and tries not to pay any mind to the tears cascading down the sides of the man's face.

"They won't take you. Y-Your asthma will cause you to fail the medical examination, and you're studying to be a school teacher so… so we can appeal this to the local board. I'll prepare the documents. It's a mere legal matter."

The tremble in Arthur's tone makes Alfred's stomach roil. He is just as scared, but he won't allow himself to break down in front of Arthur. One of them needs to act calm.

"You know that won't happen. They're desperate. They overlook all those things nowadays," Alfred says carefully, chin resting on Arthur's head now that he is the taller one of the two of them.

"But there's a case to be made here!" Arthur argues feverishly.

"I'm not going to run from this like some kind of coward."

"You aren't a coward! You have a medical condition, and no one in their right mind would drop you onto the battlefield."

"Well, no one's in their right mind anymore."

"Alfred, don't argue with me over this. Or I'll… I'll…"

"I have to go."

"No, you don't! I _won't_ let you."

God damn it, Alfred can feel his eyes start to burn as he lets Arthur hold onto him. He wants to tell him that everything will be okay—that he shouldn't worry so much, but truth be told, Alfred would be just as worried if their roles had been reversed, and he can't blame Arthur for sobbing into his t-shirt.

"Why don't they take me instead? You're too young. You don't know what war is like," Arthur says breathlessly. "I remember when I first saw you lined up with those other children against the wall. I thought about all of the terrible things you must have seen—the trauma that no boy should have to experience, and I thought that perhaps I could spare you from any more pain. And even after all you'd lived through, there was still a hopeful light in your eyes, and it was nothing short of miraculous. It is a dark and unjust world, Alfred, and I've always known it, but you convinced me there is still happiness to be had—that there is a glimmer of compassion and _hope_."

"Arthur, please don't—" Alfred whispers, biting his lower lip as a tear slips past his defenses.

"And now they want to take you from me."

"It'll be all right. They aren't taking me forever. I'll be back."

Except he's not allowed to make promises of that nature.

"Don't go," Arthur begs.

"I'll go in for the medical examination first and see what they have to say? All right?"

It's a way to push the topic off for another day, and they need time to let all of this sink in.

Time which they don't have.

* * *

Alfred's fairly certain he could have showed up to his appointment half-blind with one lung and an injured spine, and he still would have been given the 'okay' to serve in the military.

He shows up to the makeshift clinic only to be sentenced to wait over two hours for a doctor to see him. Dozens of men are lined up to be examined, ranging from young, spry boys of eighteen to older men with thinning hair. It's quite similar to being on an assembly line, and there's only one overworked physician to tend to them all.

When it's finally his turn to be seen, he is herded into an exam room by an impatient nurse with a snappy temper. She orders him sharply to take off his shirt and has him sit on a lumpy exam table, and then, without offering any explanations, she shoves a glass thermometer into his mouth as the doctor makes a fashionably late entrance. He takes over and (thankfully) the nurse leaves.

Apparently, his blood pressure and temperature are both normal. His eyes are checked for cataracts, infection, and other unpleasant illnesses, but he is deemed all right, even though he's as blind as a bat without his glasses. As long as he can see with the aid of glasses, he's supposedly fit to be in the army, regardless of how bad his myopia is.

Then, his heart and lungs are listened to. Actually, his lungs are listened to twice because, unsurprisingly, they're still rather sickly, but the doctor doesn't make very many comments and instead writes some stuff on a clipboard.

He opens his mouth and gets his tongue and teeth checked. He learns a bunch of things he never knew about himself, like how his wisdom teeth still haven't completely grown in and are somewhat crooked or how his adenoids are enlarged, and he should have had his tonsils removed when he was a child, but there's no point in doing anything about it now. None of this, however, is enough to exempt him from serving.

He has bad posture from slouching, and he's a tad on the lanky side, but there isn't any fluid in his lungs, and he doesn't have tuberculosis, so that's good to know. He's given a number of vaccines, and then, the doctor hands him a paper that says he is fit for combat and nearly shoves him out of the room as he calls in the next patient.

And for a moment, Alfred regrets ever complaining about Ivan's medical practices. The Russian man is, at least, sympathetic and competent at what he does.

He's free to go, but Alfred's not so sure if he wants to leave so soon. The sooner he leaves, the sooner he'll have to break the news to Arthur, and he's not sure how to explain it to him as gently as possible.

In the end, he doesn't have to explain it at all. Arthur takes one look at his face when he crosses the doorway and just _knows_.

They stay up all night, droopy-eyed and listless as they slump against the couch and listen to the radio, gin and tonic at hand. Arthur takes a heavy drag of a cigarette, and Alfred looks out at the window and remembers the daffodils. He, too, is wilting. He can feel it. Petal by petal, leaf by leaf.

* * *

 _Beilschmidt Sweets_ is all but rebuilt after the fire, and in the final days before Alfred is to be shipped overseas, it becomes his favorite hangout spot yet again. Gilbert lets him take whatever sweets he wants, free-of-charge, but Alfred always ends up paying him anyway out of good conscience.

And if there's one thing Alfred is grateful for, it's that Gilbert doesn't pity him. He talks to him in the same way he always has, offering tidbits of advice every now and then when it's necessary to do so. They go on their fishing trip, have a fun time, and make some great memories that Alfred will carry with him when he leaves.

But good things never last, and to Alfred's chagrin, a group of boys from the high school he used to go to come prancing on by the shop one day, looking for trouble. At first, they dawdle outside of the store in a little congregation, and as Gilbert steels himself to chase them away, one of the boys throws a jagged rock at the display window and leaves a nice sized crack in the glass.

"Disgusting Nazi!" another boy screams.

Alfred isn't sure what possesses him to do what he does next. Maybe it's the pent up stress and fear in his body that seizes him. He gets up, storms after the group of children and grips both the boy with the rock and the boy who shouted by the collars of their shirts and lowers his voice into a threatening growl.

"Don't use words you don't understand. You're no better than the Nazis when you try to hurt other people. Go in there and apologize."

The irritating smirks on the boys' faces are replaced with frightened grimaces. They hang their heads, walk inside, and follow Alfred's instructions. Gilbert says he's going to find their parents so they can pay for the damaged window, and then, the children scurry away.

"You didn't have to do that," Gilbert sighs, inspecting the damage done to the display window more closely. "This happens all of the time now."

Alfred frowns. "You shouldn't put up with it."

"I don't have a choice."

"I'm sorry, Gilbert. No one should have to be harassed like that."

"Ahh, don't worry about it, squirt. I've seen worse," Gilbert says with a sad smile. "Thank you... Can you promise me something, kid?"

"Sure. What is it?"

"Stay safe. Don't be a hero if you don't have to be one."

Alfred takes in a shaky breath and replies, "All right, but only if you promise me something, too."

"Hey, I don't have to promise you anything! Remember your place!" Gilbert jokes teasingly, but he's all ears nonetheless.

"Keep an eye on Arthur for me while I'm gone. Check in on him now and then, and make sure he doesn't overwork himself, okay?"

"You know you didn't even have to ask, squirt."

* * *

Matthew comes to see him off.

And so do Francis, Gilbert, Ivan, Toris, and, of course, Arthur.

Alfred will be taking a train to the coast, and then a ship to the training site, and then another ship to wherever the powers that be determine he should battle once he learns how to fire a gun and hit a target. He is reminded of wanting a gun on his thirteenth birthday, and how Arthur refused to give him one. Maybe it was then that his fate was sealed.

The train platform is just about the worst place on Earth in that moment. He is glad that everyone is here for him, but it also makes it infinitely harder to say goodbye. He is loved here, in this forgotten town with its overgrown fields and quirky inhabitants. This time, when his eyes burn, he lets them water.

"Make us proud out there," Toris says first, giving him a hug and a pat on the back.

"Don't get into any trouble, squirt."

"You will be in our prayers, _mon chou_."

"Write to us, _solnyshko._ "

He can't see through the glossiness of his eyes, but he recognizes Mattie's arms around him a second later.

"I know we didn't get a whole lot of time together, Al, but because of that, the time we did get to spend together is so much more valuable—" Matthew cuts himself off as his breath hitches and hastily apologizes, trying to keep his resolve. "I love you. You're my brother, and I'll always love you, so please be careful out there and write to me."

"You've got it, Matt. I love you, too," Alfred smiles through his tears. "I'll keep you updated on everything."

And then, last but certainly not least, there's Arthur—by far the hardest person to say goodbye to, but Alfred doesn't want this to be a tragic departure. They need to separate on a high note.

Alfred rubs at his eyes and chuckles, "Come here, you."

Arthur walks into his arms and is tormented by a fit of tremors in his limbs. He tries to speak, but he can't, and so, Alfred decides he'll have to do the talking for them both.

"I don't tell you enough how much I love you. You're the closest thing to a father that I could have ever asked for, and thank you for everything you've done for me—what you still do for me. No matter what happens, that won't change. Please don't be sad. Believe it or not, I hate seeing you sad, and… and I'll be all right. You helped raise me, after all," Alfred finishes with a soft laugh. "H-Hey, don't cry."

He knows that if it were possible, Arthur would offer himself up to go on that train in his place. Damned madman.

Arthur cards a hand through Alfred's air, takes in a long breath, and says, "You had better write to me, young man."

"I will. Pinkie-promise."

"And take care of yourself out there."

"I know."

"If I have to go and kill Hitler myself to bring you back home, I will."

Alfred laughs again and drops his head onto Arthur's shoulder. "I know you would."

"I love you."

"Are you sure?" Alfred jokes, pursing his lips. "I've done some pretty messed up things over the years."

"Well, now that you mention it," Arthur counters before allowing himself a smile of his own. "Stay safe, my boy."

"I'll try."

He lets Arthur go, gives everyone one last wave goodbye, and forces himself to turn around to board the train.

It hurts more than any physical wound ever could.


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note:** It's the final chapter!

* * *

Arthur,

Warsaw is not what I imagined it would be.

Training ended last week, and although I'm stronger than ever and my legs can carry nearly twice my weight, I still feel helpless when I hear stories of the German army and how well-equipped they are. And the stories must be true because in the short time I've been stationed in Poland, I've seen flattened homes and charred asphalt—evidence that we shouldn't take our enemies lightly.

But I don't want to tell you about what it's like here because I'm sure you've read about it in the papers already. Besides, I don't want you to unnecessarily worry. I'm all right, really.

I'm more interested in finding out how everyone's doing at home. I want to hear all of the town's gossip, even though I know you don't like meddling in the business of others. Humor me for once.

Speaking of the business of others, I've met a lot of interesting people over the past few months. There's a pilot I know who used to assemble cars and be part of a traveling jazz group. I don't know, it seems like a strange combination, doesn't it?

The other men share stories from home throughout most of the day, and I haven't decided whether it's because they're homesick or because they're afraid of forgetting what life before the war was like. Maybe it's both.

It's easy to let everything mess with your head if you're not careful. I've realized that drinking, women, and a good smoke are the usual ways of dealing with the senseless nature of fighting, but for some reason, none of those things seem attractive to me right now.

Writing has helped. It's not much, and maybe it's not as great as some whiskey, but it's usually enough to keep me grounded. If I'm going to change during this war, I want it to be for the better.

It's funny, when I'm out and about, I'm always coming up with ideas for all of the things I should tell you in my letters, but once I actually pick up a pen, it's like all of the water from my glass has been dumped into the sink, and I don't have anything left except a longing for everything that's been lost.

I hope you're doing well and work hasn't been too demanding. Are you working on a new case? Don't be afraid to share the details—I promise I won't find it boring. I've sat through Major Jackson's story about the crocodile he wrestled with in Florida six times and counting, so I'd honestly be okay with hearing about absolutely anything else at this point.

Get back to me soon.

Miss you tons,

Alfred

* * *

Alfred,

You would be surprised with how little information filters over to us. I hope this letter finds you well, and you needn't worry about how things are here. Matthew visited for the New Year, and he's considering leaving Philadelphia to work for the _Illinois Inquirer_. I'll pretend that you didn't have anything to do with his sudden desire to move. Nor would I ever suggest you were the one who persuaded Gilbert to come and pester me at least once every other day.

While your concern for me is appreciated, I'd sleep much easier if you invested more efforts into your own wellbeing.

As for the chatter around town, Francis has decided to organize a book club. Whether or not he is literate is still up for debate, seeing as his choices of work thus far have consisted of poorly-written romance novels set in the seventeenth century. Gilbert has refused to come to any further meetings until a dystopian science fiction play finds its way onto the table. Ivan has dutifully abided by the reading list, while I have decided to skim through the clumsy prose for only the most pertinent plot points.

In other news, you'll be excited to learn that Gilbert has been searching for an engagement ring to propose to Elizabeta with. He's convinced she'll say no, but I disagree. There will likely be a wedding within the year, so let's hope this war reaches its final act by then.

I am glad you have been able to find some solace in writing these letters. Tempting though it may be, wallowing between pubs will do little to lift one's spirits. Perhaps one day you'll be able to introduce me to the companions you've made.

Work has been slow. The case currently on my desk consists of a minor infraction of disorderly conduct and will be settled by the end of the day. I apologize—it's not particularly fascinating, and there'd be no point in elaborating on it.

Wrestling a crocodile in Florida, you say? My, now that sounds like quite the story. It's a tale you might consider writing down eventually. It could make for useful material if you ever choose to publish a memoir.

How have your lungs been treating you? The cold, mountainous air in Poland isn't exactly the ideal climate for someone with your condition. Ivan suggests you keep warm and pace yourself whenever you're doing strenuous activities. I know your circumstances are rather unforgiving at the moment, and I can't expect you to be treated differently from any other soldier, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't fret over you.

I can only envisage the hell you've been through in the last few months, but I know you will persevere.

Always with you,

Arthur

* * *

Arthur,

Nearly six weeks later, and I only now have the chance to write another letter. Plus, this won't get to you for another few weeks, so I may as well not have written to you for two and a half months. You must be worried out of your mind after not hearing from me for so long, and I'm sorry for putting you through that. I've been told though, that in the army, it's sometimes better not to get any news. In fact, that probably means everything is okay, so you'll know not to panic for future reference.

Did Gilbert propose to Elizabeta yet? I have to know! And tell me what books you guys are reading, I need some recommendations even though it's hard to get any decent books around here.

As for the memoir—I could never write a book of my own. I'm just not that type of person.

The cold air isn't such a problem anymore since I'm not in Poland. I'm in southern England (yeah, I know, crazy, huh?). It's just _damp_ and foggy all of the goddamned time here. I don't know how anybody could survive in a place like this for more than a month. I've got to give the Brits credit where credit is due though—they've got steel bars for backbones. Nothing seems to break them. Must be all of the rain and mist that toughened them up so much.

We've been giving the UK troops here some much needed support. It wasn't a pretty sight at first. Things haven't been… great.

But I'm all right, and I know that's what you wanted to know the most. There's lots of air raids and commotion, but it's starting to quiet down.

Also, I don't know what you're talking about in terms of Matt. I would _never_ tell him to move to Illinois to be closer to you. The last thing I want is for his sweet and innocent soul to be corrupted by your cynicism (okay, okay, so maybe I had a little something to do with it, and you know I like your cynicism).

I'm trying to get this letter out to you as soon as possible, so I won't write too much, but I just wanted to tell you that everything's going to be okay. Tell everyone in town that I love them. And if Gilbert hasn't proposed yet, tell him to just do it already!

Hang in there,

Alfred

* * *

Alfred,

While I'm relieved to finally hear back from you, you must think I'm daft if you thought I wouldn't notice the troubling aspects of your last letter. How extensive are the air raids? Are you outnumbered in terms of forces? And if you're assuring me things _will be_ okay, then they must not be okay at the present. I heard the fight with Japan is escalating and a greater number of American troops are being concentrated on the Pacific islands. Keep me updated.

Eagerly awaiting further details,

Arthur

* * *

It all starts with the dysentery he gets when the war in the Pacific goes into full swing.

One too many times, Alfred takes the risk of drinking some questionable water, but clean water isn't always easy to come by, and usually it's a choice between the risk of disease or death from dehydration. And so, he chooses the lesser of two evils. Having an infection is better than the agonizing pain of having organs shut themselves down one by one.

But in the end, it doesn't make a difference anyway, because he contracts dysentery once and for all and becomes dehydrated anyway. He spends an entire morning vomiting within the camp, and although he goes to the infirmary for help, he gets sent away because most of his unit is sick as well, and he's not the only one who's been unable to hold down his meager breakfast.

The fever makes everything hazy. One minute he's shuffling through groups of fellow soldiers, knocking elbows with them by accident as his wobbling legs carry him forward, and then, in the next minute, he can't remember why he left his tent in the first place. He bobs in and out of awareness like a boat swaying in the open ocean, but he still has enough strength to move about, and for that, he's thankful. At some point, he collapses in his tent and wakes up the following morning, rattled awake by his roommate because they've got a mission to complete today, and if he doesn't get up soon, Major Jackson will use him for heavy labor until his arms detach from his shoulders.

His condition improves somewhat, and he's able to hold down small amounts of water now, but as he marches alongside everyone, head hurting from the sizzling heat beating against his skull, he knows he won't last much longer like this, especially not in combat.

He adjusts the strap of the gun on his back as his group is led out and into a thicket of trees on the outskirts of a beach. He only catches half of the long list of instructions barked at him. Apparently, they've gotten word that the Japanese are planning an attack today, so everyone is expected to stay on guard and hide themselves in the canopy of the trees for a surprise counterattack.

And so, even though his body is aching and his intestines are sending hot spouts of pain at him, Alfred gets himself up into a tree and waits, just as he's supposed to. Everything turns still and silent aside from the rustling leaves, and he leans his head against the sturdy trunk behind him, hoping to rest his eyes for a second or two.

A second becomes a minute. A minute becomes ten minutes, and then, without knowing how much time has passed, his eyes spring wide open at the sound of gunfire ricocheting above him. He sits up, tries to get a good look around him and find cover, but his body moves slower than his mind, and as he ducks his head at the bullets flying from his right, something snags him on the left.

At first, it feels as though he's been badly burned. He hobbles out of the tree and searches for someone from his unit, but his vision is blurring as he can't see a thing. There's blood leaking out of new hole in his abdomen, and his delirious mind idiotically thinks that maybe he should head out toward the beach. He'll be more open to enemy fire, but he has a better chance of being spotted by his team there than here.

The wound doesn't really hurt as much as he expects it to, and maybe that's because his body is so rundown that it can't feel pain anymore, or maybe it's the adrenaline that's covering up the severity. Regardless, he's able to propel himself to the sandy shore. There's no one in sight as most of the fighting continues from between the trees, and so, he is at peace for a moment.

He lies down in the sand, hoping that if he doesn't move, a Japanese soldier won't have a reason to shoot at him. With one hand pressed against his abdomen, he looks up at the beaming sun as his headache buzzes on.

The sun doesn't look any different no matter where you look at it from, and that small realization brings him comfort. He tries to imagine what he'd be doing if he weren't at war right now. Maybe he'd be studying for a class, reading a book, visiting town and helping to plan Gilbert's wedding.

Arthur is most likely asleep because although it's well in the afternoon where Alfred is, it's an hour or two past midnight in Illinois. Then again, his old caretaker has been having trouble sleeping lately, according to Matthew. Is he up now—looking out the window and having a cup of chamomile tea? Is he thinking about him? Can he somehow feel that he's lying in the middle of this abandoned beach, bleeding out and waiting for help?

Probably not.

He closes his eyes and remembers the drywall behind him on the very first day he met Arthur, green eyes blinking at him with conviction—asking for his name. Riding in the car for the first time. Meeting Baron. Going out to town with Francis. The chocolate bars at _Beilschmidt Sweets_. Ms. Hedervary in her garden. Ivan sitting by his bedside. Ludwig sweeping the floors. Mr. Honda reading his haiku and saying poetry could give a man his wings.

And he could use some wings right about now. He could fly up and off of this beach. He could leave the anger and the pain and the fighting behind him. He could go back to when things were simple and easy—when the hardest part of his day was convincing Arthur to let him go exploring the fields with Toris.

Pain. He's starting to feel it now. It's an awful thing. He hopes he managed to take some of it away over the years, like when he stayed with Arthur when the man broke his wrist. Or when Baron died, and they shed tears for him together. Or when he helped Francis with the groceries. Or when he asked Gilbert to play soccer. Or when he walked Toris home after he was bitten by that snake.

Maybe all of it meant nothing. Maybe there wasn't a resolution at the end—but it was _something_ , and it mattered.

He is tired. Maybe he'll just rest. The blood is now seeping from between his fingers, but he doesn't try to stop it. Maybe this is how all of the pain leaves the body.

He feels himself becoming lighter, as though he's floating a few inches off the ground. Mind separates from body. He feels like he could just drift away. At first, the sensation is alarming, but then, he lets it be.

Everything is okay. The fight is ending. The town will always be there, and they will have each other, just as they always have.

The pain begins to fade. It still hurts, but it won't hurt forever.

The rushing sound of the waves crashing into the shoreline gets softer, and he just lets himself drift.

Drifting… Drifting…

Drifting all the way home.


End file.
